


Blessed Are the Hearts that Bend (They Shall Not Be Broken)

by Disishistory



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (but they'll have to fight for it), (except for Micah that's the whole point), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Author is appalled by the lack of Hosea vs Micah on this website and intends to fix that, BAMF Arthur Morgan, BAMF Hosea Matthews, Blessed Are The Peacemakers, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dutch gets his head out of his ass, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hosea Matthews takes no shit, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt Hosea Matthews, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Micah meets the end he deserves WAY earlier, Protective Hosea Matthews, Reconciliation, Recovery, Whump, post-Blessed Are the Peacemakers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 09:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disishistory/pseuds/Disishistory
Summary: Arthur is gone.It’s nothing the gang ain’t accustomed to. But a peace talk with Colm sounded like a prelude to catastrophe, despite all of Dutch’s placating and Micah’s cajoling.And Hosea Matthews will have none of it.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 93
Kudos: 391
Collections: Red Dead 2 Faves





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning** for not so undisclosed **homophobia** (you’ve seen who’s featured in this fic).
> 
> So, erm… What happens when you got: a bored woman locked with her obsessions and in desperate need to create something, her love for sad cowboys, her even more immeasurable love for Hosea “deserved better” Matthews and his son, a perpetual craving for those sweet h/c and family feels, an unstoppable thirst for vandermatthews softness on the side and a just as unstoppable need to murder Micah Bell? This fic. I hope you will enjoy it. I wrote this in complete self-indulgence. All three chapters are already written, so you can expect chapter 2 by next Sunday. Stay tuned ;)
> 
> Some acknowledgments before I go: I must of course thank my friend [platonicharmonics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics) for both supporting me through my messy creative process and for inspiring me with [his wonderful, amazing, incredibly sincere and emotional fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781100/chapters/57126046) that you should absolutely go read. God knows we’ve spent hours rambling and crying over Hosea Matthews, among other cowboys. I must also thank my dear friend [Menecio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/menecio/pseuds/menecio) for the reviewing/betaing, much needed writing advice and just as constant support (and patience as I keep spamming about cowboys and various yeehaw feels).

* * *

There’s a weariness in Hosea’s bones. He wishes it was just his age catching up with him, unconcerned by how much they’ve been trying to run from everything else—and time doesn’t run, it flies, it’s a battle nobody ever wins. But regrets, he’s found out, can gnaw at your joints like a rabid mutt.

For the last couple of months, Hosea has become well acquainted with that additional weight on his shoulders and inside his chest, and it’s scary how one gets used to the most uncomfortable of things rather than face the causes head-on. Most of the days, Hosea likes to think himself able to do the latter more often than not.

But today, he’s tired. Maybe that’s why he says it only once then, tone almost too casual, instead of hammering it down into Dutch’s ear like he sometimes would. Like he should.

“It’s a trap.”

Because how on Earth can a parley with Colm O’Driscoll be anything else than that? Nobody in their line of work is a saint, but Colm makes some of them wretched devils look like angels. Hell, even Dutch sees it, eyeing Pearson and Micah almost menacingly for daring to suggest otherwise. They’ve fought the man too many times to blindly accept the delusions of naivety when it comes to Colm.

And _Dutch…_

Hosea exhales through his nose, his thin fingers pressing harder the pages of the newspaper he’s lost interest in ever since Pearson stepped into Dutch’s tent like a feverish possum wandering in the summer heat. The paper is creasing in his grip, the ink smudging against his thumb. His mind is taken back to Colter, to Dutch strutting to the Count in the snow, each step meant to disguise his stubbornness with the pretense of determination as he ignored Hosea’s pleas to forget the hell about Colm and that damned Cornwall train. If Hosea allows himself to follow that trail for too long, he knows he’ll start thinking about Blackwater again.

But the stifling tiredness in him is strong today and feeding on his buried anger, instead of setting it free. Perhaps it’s weakness, an instinct of self-preservation. Whatever it is, he yields to it rather than voicing out the more venomous thoughts that are lying at the back of his mind.

And so, he doesn’t walk into Dutch’s tent as Pearson, Arthur, and Micah swarm around him. He doesn’t start a lecture about why everything about this feels wrong. He remains seated at this table, only trying to catch Dutch’s eyes and pry his attention away from the reassurances spilling from Micah’s mouth.

He doesn’t quite appreciate the irony of Dutch’s growing taste for retaliation being the only thing holding him back, but Hosea knows too well how the memory of Annabelle’s blood has haunted him to this day.

He’s surprised when Dutch strides to him, hopeful when he holds his gaze for a second, disappointed when it ends too soon as Dutch bows his head. But he’s thinking at least. Truly thinking. Were it not for today’s fatigue and barely concealed bitterness, Hosea could thank him for it.

“As you said, it’s a long time ago, Dutch.”

Hosea hates that these words could have been his in another context, one that doesn’t involve Micah spinning a yarn into Dutch’s ear, and Dutch so often listening to him, even when he should know better—when he _knows_ better, for Christ’s sake! Dutch isn’t quite the fool yet to not be aware of Micah’s tongue constantly lapping at his boots.

Hosea would bristle if he could. Micah talking about making peace with anyone feels about as right and reliable as a talking alligator promising not to eat you alive.

And then, after a silence, Dutch agrees to go.

For a split second, Hosea is tempted to let it go. To let him learn his lesson by himself and be damned. And if Hosea is to be proven wrong, well, _perfect!_ They’ll gather around the bonfire and drink themselves to sleep, and Dutch will pat himself on the back for his good judgment, challenge Hosea with that shit-eating grin of his and nag at him for his bubble-bursting pessimism. _Just go, then!_

Except that he’s never been quite comfortable with the thought of Dutch being taught humility by the threat of too many bullets.

That and the fact that Arthur, of course, is going with him.

So maybe he won't repeat his previous words. But instinct is a powerful thing, and Dutch has always valued Hosea's.

“Dutch, are you sure about this?” he asks, falling into step behind him before they go. He makes a point of asking a question, rather than pin him down with his certitude that _he shouldn't be sure about it_ , because convincing Dutch of anything is an exercise in balance. Hosea knows that he can take the shoving, and so he'll shove Dutch if need be, simply because he can, and more importantly because he should. Nevertheless, coaxing is sometimes the only way to bring Dutch back from whatever dark spiral paralyzes his mind and make him see past the walls of his pride and self-doubt, by far the greatest enemy he'd rather die than disclose to anyone alive, except Hosea.

At least, that used to be true. There's a painful throb in his heart at the thought, as if the organ was trying to outgrow its own weathering flesh.

Dutch glances at him, but his step doesn't falter. "What do you want from me, Hosea?" he sighs, and Hosea's patience is already assaulted by his frustration. It's Colter all over again. Hosea has half a mind to throw at his face the same answer he'd given him then. _I just don't want any more folks to die, Dutch!_

He opts for the other half of that answer, keeping his voice low:

“Listen, I'm not asking this to undermine your plans. I'm asking because this is Colm we're talking about.”

“Weren't you the one to give me hell for going after him in Colter? You should rejoice. Peace at last.”

The brush-off fully awakens Hosea's acerbity this time. “Don't play dumb, you know what I mean.”

“No, Hosea, I don't think I do. I thought you wanted me to let it all go. Revenge and rivalry and all of that.”

“I didn't mean for you to walk into a so-called parley with the man who's sworn to have your head and everyone else's here. Stop being a dogged idiot, and look at me.”

Hosea's fully prepared for the dark fire in Dutch's eyes when he does, stopping dead in his tracks, and he holds it. Micah and Arthur stop as well, the latter eyeing the confrontation with wary expectation. Dutch jerks his head in direction of the horses, dismissing them. Hosea breathes out slowly.

“Dutch,” he continues after they’ve gone, his tone softer. He reaches for Dutch's arm, a simple contact, not just meant to hold him there but to offer him a pause. “I don't need to wrangle over it with you: you know this might be a trap. We don't need Colm on top of everything else after what happened in Valentine with Cornwall. We already got enough on our plates with the Grays and th—”

“What choice do I have, Hosea? You said it yourself, he's after my head. _Our_ heads. I will always hate that son of a bitch for what he did, but if there's a chance to make sure he's no longer a threat to us, one that don't bring down more law on us, what _choice_ do I have?” The flames in Dutch's pupils die down as he speaks, the contact of Hosea's hand anchoring him.

The tranquil bustle of Clemens Point merges with the wind caressing the leaves of the majestic tree looking down over their camp. If Hosea closed his eyes, he could start pretending there was nobody else around. He is too tempted in that instant to let himself slip into the comfort of old memories, when it was just the two of them, enveloped by winds as warm as this one, lungs filled with the promises of a land nourished by lakes and rivers. A western land, so different from this hostile South.

He has no answer to give Dutch, yet the tug in his stomach persists, like a chain keeping him in range of darker thoughts. But Dutch isn't quite done. “Arthur got recognized by one of them a week ago. It was only one then, he got out fine, but they might be twelve next time that happens. I have to try. And I need _you_ to stand with _me_.”

And just like that, at the mention of Arthur's name, Hosea yields. His arm drops to his side, letting Dutch and the memories escape his grasp.

There is nothing he can say against that. That simple realization makes his jaw tighten and his brow crease. The ache in his stomach grows vitriolic, like a wound bleeding out again because it's been pulled at too quickly and too sharply after being stitched up. Something must have shown on his face, for Dutch frowns at him then, puzzled but unwilling to probe deeper. Because that's always his job, to probe. Never Dutch's.

Hosea is tired.

Dutch, Micah, and Arthur leave.

But the discomfort in his gut doesn't.

* * *

The pain in his back and joints has barely receded, no matter how warm and dry the day gets. He knew it wouldn’t, wetness still too pervasive in the air after yesterday’s rains. His last ginseng tonic helped, but patience is the only ally he can truly depend on when his chronic aches return. He grinds his teeth in an involuntary jerk, resetting his hat over his eyes. He takes comfort in knowing that he’s had worse fits. There was that one time in Horseshoe when he had to cower in the outskirts of the camp; hidden in the shadow of a tree, he plunged his fingers in the humid grass and balled his fists so tight his knuckles took on the shade of the snowy peaks they could see from the top of the cliff. He pressed his back against the bark with the hope that the rough friction would alleviate some of the pain that made him wince with each step. He counts himself lucky today’s not even close to that.

All concerns about the betrayals of his aging body withdraw to the far back of his mind when he hears the sound of hooves clopping through the trees. Relief floods him when he makes out the Count’s pristine coat, his owner unscathed on his back.

Micah emerges next as he stands up to his feet and makes his way to Dutch. “How did it go?”

“It went… good,” Dutch replies after a beat as he slides down his saddle.

Hosea frowns. The words are concerning enough, but it’s Dutch’s hesitation that sounds like an alarm bell. “ _Good?_ What do you mean, good?”

Dutch takes off his hat to run his fingers through his dampening curls. His shrug is half-hearted at best. “I don’t know, we talked. Colm came with two men, and we talked some.” He wears a scowl on his face, the same expression he has whenever he recalls his bloody history with Colm. Like he wishes bullets had spoken rather than mere words. “Then he just… walked off.”

The alarm bell rings louder inside Hosea’s skull. “Colm O’Driscoll just _walked off_?”

“Well, I’m here, ain’t I? Guess it really was a parley.”

Hosea is about to nod with careful acceptance when he realizes Dutch’s party came back one number short. A sudden coldness slithers down his throat.

“Where’s Arthur?”

Dutch looks at him, his eyes strangely unreadable under the brim of his hat. But the half-second when his gaze and Hosea’s lock together is its own untamable language, one that doesn’t quite care for the grin that suddenly stretches Dutch’s lips. “He went off on his own. Huntin’, probably.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Relax, old man,” Micah slides in, hunched over his saddle-horn. “Morgan went on a stroll, like the big boy he is. Must be helpin’ a kitten down some tree as we’re talkin’.”

Hosea’s finger shoots faster than lightning in Micah’s direction. “I didn’t ask _you_.”

He catches the twitch of Micah’s lip at his rebuttal, the flash of anger in his obscured eyes, gone quickly as he raises his hands in that meek, placating manner of his. He takes a step back, clearly intending to remove himself from the oncoming argument, and Hosea lets him, not wanting to waste a second more than necessary on the man.

When Hosea turns back to Dutch, he’s already walking to his tent, his right hand fumbling inside his coat for a cigar. Not missing a beat, Hosea goes after him. “Did he tell you that?” he asks again.

Dutch doesn’t brush away his question, but it’s a close call. He waves a hand, stepping into his tent. “You know how that boy is, gets camp-sick if he stays one hour too long around us.”

“ _Dutch,_ ” Hosea snaps, his voice reaching the pitch that promises a hell-storm if Dutch even dares not giving a truthful answer. He steps in as well, feeling stifled in the tent’s smooth shadows, almost cornered. “Did Arthur tell you that he was goin’ hunting?”

And _damn him_ , the man takes the time to light his match before replying. “No, he didn’t. He just left us there and we figured we should let him and go back to camp.”

“ _Jesus Christ,_ Dutch!”

“He’s fine, Hosea. He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake. He wanders off constantly, what is it with you and all this mollycoddling?”

Hosea’s blood is boiling something fierce in his veins, and it takes near all his self-control not to smack Dutch’s cigar out of his grasp at this moment. “Are you joking? You don’t know that! You’re tellin’ me you just went to have a nice little chat with Colm O’Driscoll and you don’t find it a tiny bit worrying that Arthur doesn’t come back with you?”

Dutch puffs his cigar as if its smoke could block Hosea’s concerns. The pause is deafening, the silence between them charged. “You worry too much, Hosea,” he says at last, his voice dangerously low.

“And when did you stop worrying _at all_? Was it Blackwater or before?”

Neither the veil of smoke nor the soft shadows of Clemens Point can conceal the brewing heat in Dutch’s gaze when he looks back at Hosea then. The small part of Hosea that isn’t busy being angry or anxious over the situation suddenly aches with the awareness that he can’t recall the last argument they’ve had when Dutch’s ego wouldn’t take over his senses the second Hosea failed to concur with him, clouding his judgment worse than any fog, mistaking objection for second-guessing and concern for sabotage. Not that Dutch’s temper was anything new to him or anyone in the gang. Hell, Hosea even owed that fiery, indomitable spirit some of his best years, and more importantly, he owed it the better angels of his nature. But the times when Dutch’s own worry allowed for his weaknesses to crack through the wall of his stubbornness whenever he and Hosea butted heads seem so rare now. Too rare. There _was_ that moment at Horseshoe, Dutch breathing the word “Blackwater” unprompted, his eyes drifting toward his tentatively, a window cracking open onto festering doubts. That new fiasco in Valentine slammed that window shut.

He wishes the bitterness at the back of his throat was merely the product of benign frustration rather than the rotten fruit of regret.

“I can’t hear this again,” Dutch scowls, taking one step forward, evading Hosea’s eyes and leaving him to stare furiously at the flaps of his tent.

“ _Fine_ , then. I guess I’ll go find him myself!”

His heels are already turned when he feels strong fingers grab his wrist before he can extract himself from the shade of the tent. The pull is firm but, like a reflection of his own gesture right before Dutch’s departure, the grasp loosens ever so slightly as soon as his attention returns to the man. Hosea looks down at Dutch’s unringed hand, his features hardening as he expects Dutch’s expression to mirror his, but when he looks up, his brow is marked by lines that translate anguish instead of fury.

“Hosea, wait. Breathe a second, will you?”

“Dutch…”

“I know you’re worried. Listen, he’s our boy. I understand. I worry too.” Hosea scoffs at that. “I do. I worry about _all_ of you. Everyday. That’s why I agreed to go talk with Colm, of all people. Can’t you try to see that, old friend?”

Hosea glares at his pleading eyes for long seconds. The chirping of crickets and the splashing of hungry fish taking their chances at the surface of the lake fill the quiet until it becomes too much to bear. “I can. I do,” he relents, looking down again at Dutch’s hand, whose thumb is now rubbing circles against the hollow of his wrist, and the unexpected gesture makes his skin tingle, like his body has been missing that simple reassuring pressure beyond his own awareness. A sigh escapes his lips, carrying exhaustion and compromise in its trail. “It just… doesn’t feel right.”

Dutch takes a step, gets closer to him, his cigar forgotten in his right hand resting against his side. “Nothing about Colm ever seemed right in all them years we known him,” he admits with the promise of a chuckle at the back of his throat. His eyes search for Hosea under the cover of his hat. He lets him find them. “Listen, I don’t know if this truce can last. I don’t know if we can trust the promises of this bastard in the long run, but shouldn’t we _try_ , at least tonight? This week, this month? What’s the point of faith if we don’t try some believing now and then?”

Hosea’s lips press into a thin line. “Believing is all right and good Dutch, but it doesn’t make bullets or ropes magically disappear.”

“You say that, but I know you believe in Arthur. He’ll be fine. Besides, I remember him talking about a bounty east of Emerald Station. I can bet you half the camp’s box that’s where he is right now.”

“Only half?”

“The other half is for him catchin’ some godforsaken rabbits for Pearson’s stew.”

An involuntary smile tugs at the corners of Hosea’s mouth, but his brown remains furrowed. The hand on his wrist suddenly lets go to reach for the side of his neck. Dutch’s palm is impossibly warm and soft against the taut cords of his skin. The tips of two fingers play with the hair of his nape. The touch is light as a feather, yet the sheer weight of its significance, made only greater by what has been driving them apart lately, is enough to soothe the storm that raged between and inside them not a minute ago.

“So you remember him talking about that bounty,” Hosea notes after a while.

One of Dutch’s eyebrows arches up to his forehead. “Of course I do.”

“Maybe…” Hosea starts, then wets his lips. His hand reaches up to cover Dutch’s on his neck. “Maybe you should show him more.”

Dutch’s expression looks only more puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“He works harder than anyone else in this camp, Dutch. He deserves more recognition than a simple nod when he donates to the box.”

Dutch doesn’t answer to that, preferring to watch the sun slowly dip and drown itself in the lake, its horizon a thread of fading flames. Hosea exhales slowly. There are only so many bridges they can mend in one conversation. The weariness chased away by the heat of their dispute floods him again, like a rising tide claiming back the shores of his mind and body.

“You’re tired, Hosea.”

It’s an observation. _A fact._ Delivered with gentleness and yet cold in its undeniability.

“I—”

“Get some rest,” Dutch offers, cigar back to his lips. He takes a puff, then looks back at Hosea. “Get some rest,” he says again. “Let’s just wait for a bit before we send the cavalry, alright?”

Hosea ponders his words, all the grey areas left between them like so many deadly chasms, the weight he still can’t shake off his stomach. Then he ponders the truth he senses in them, his knowledge of Arthur’s skills and character, their need to lie low, the still vivid and dangerous panic that seized them all when Dutch, Arthur, John, and a wounded Strauss burst through the cover of the trees of Horseshoe Overlook at full speed after the shootout in Valentine.

Everything has felt so cold and distant during the past few months, and Dutch’s hand is so warm where his neck and shoulder meet.

“Alright,” he eventually concedes, his whole frame slackening in that second, the word engraving his exhaustion back into reality.

* * *

The next day, the pain in Hosea’s legs and lower back has dulled significantly. The unease that has taken hold of him ever since Dutch and Micah returned, however, has only increased.

He searches for Dutch’s eyes the entire morning, hoping to find in the dark brown irises the smallest reflection of the throbbing instinct that clings to him like chains to his ankles as he paces around camp. This quest only makes him more agitated, as he often finds Micah standing on his way. Physically at first, with the both of them looming over a map of Lemoyne unrolled on the poker table, secluded in their exchange of furtive whispers. Later, when Hosea finally gets to approach the man in a semblance of privacy as he retreats to the shore to indulge his penchant for contemplation, he hears Micah’s voice in Dutch’s obsessive mumbling about dangerously crude schemes involving Sheriff Gray and his deputies. However, the excitement Hosea initially felt when the idea of robbing ex-slavers from their gold popped into both their minds grants him no solace now. Dutch’s words are lost on him just as Dutch’s eyes fail to reflect the unease in his.

Hosea snaps at Bill twice in an hour for loafing about, and he’s perfectly aware of Sean and even poor Kieran carefully keeping out of his way, intent on avoiding the unrest and frustration radiating from him like the Lemoyne heat emanates from the lakeshore sand.

The night did make Dutch’s reassurances gain some ground in his mind. His words and display of affection—honest, he knows, because too quiet, too _simple_ to be part of Dutch’s games or intellectual gymnastics—acted like a blanket he didn’t know he’d needed in the cold sea of his constant worrying. But this comfort, he now realizes, one he would usually welcome with open arms, is ill-timed, for that whisper at the back of his head has grown louder at its contact.

The present comes back to Hosea in the flash of a blink as he finds himself standing in front of Arthur’s cot. It’s the third time today.

His bowl of stew rests cold and untouched in his hand. He tries not to let his eyes roam over Arthur’s things, over the newspaper cut lying on the table next to his bed, pressed under the frame of Mary’s photograph, the drawing left by Jack as thanks for helping him find a thimble for his mother, arrows left by Charles before he went on a hunting trip—Hosea’s heartbeat quickens at the thought of Arthur always more and more willing to ride with Charles rather than alone these days. He’s seen how Arthur would even postpone his initial plans and wait for Charles if the boy was busy on some other errand or job, how his eyes light up, even under the protection of his father’s old gambler hat, each time Charles walks to him with the promise of his easy companionship. The first time Hosea noticed, it brought a mischievous smile to his lips. Now it makes his stomach twist on itself, the heaviness of his unease spreading up to his entire chest.

He dumps the contents of his bowl in the golden grass, the little appetite he had fully dissolved into the pit of apprehension that’s now feeding on him. There is still that collected voice ringing between his ears, reminding him that _yes_ , Arthus is prone to lonely wanderings, _yes_ , he’s even taken the habit of doing so without giving any notice, especially since Blackwater. That voice is plural, sounding like his, Dutch’s and Arthur’s all at once, and he’s had more causes than he cares to count to listen to that strange blend in the past.

Then his eyes slide to that photograph of the three of them pinned to the wood of the wagon above the cot.

An inexplicable dam of dread collapses inside him and his heart drops in his chest.

His bowl hits the ground near Arthur’s bed in a soft thud, and just like that, Hosea’s resolution snaps into place like the crack of a whip.

Nobody comes to stop him as he beelines for the tranquil silhouette of Silver Dollar resting near the eastern limit of the camp, his legs quick and sturdy for what seems to be the first time in weeks, pushed by a renewed trust in that instinct that _won’t_ let go of him until he’s found Arthur and made sure he’s okay. The melded voices inside his head are now all absorbed into one: his own, and _damn him_ if he won’t listen to it.

The reins are already in his hand when he recognizes the steps approaching him from behind.

“Hosea?”

He doesn’t even turn around. “I’m going to look for Arthur, Dutch.”

“This again?”

Hosea tries to ignore Dutch’s assuaging chuckle.

“ _Yes_ , this again.” He breathes through his teeth. “Call it mollycoddlin’, or paranoia or whatever the hell you want. Something ain’t right and I’m not staying here like a useless rag because Colm decided to play nice all of a sudden.”

“This isn’t about Colm,” Dutch says as he walks around Silver Dollar to look directly at him. Hosea doesn’t return the look, decided on keeping his concentration on his saddle as he adjusts the old leathery straps.

“You’re right,” he replies. “It’s about Arthur.”

The dismissive _tsk_ Dutch makes with his tongue has Hosea’s blood shoot faster in his veins. The gentleness and the mutual comfort of their last exchange are already getting smudged by the tension that slithers back between them like a tenacious snake that won’t back down against the foot that disturbed it.

“Arthur doesn’t need you goin’ all that soft on him. That’s not helping him and that’s not helping _us._ ”

Hosea’s hands, busy with his saddlebag a second ago, instantly freeze, their motion left incomplete.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His voice isn’t a whisper, but it gets lower than his usual speech, dark with a form of anger he ordinarily keeps in check because he knows very well how ugly things can turn whenever he taps into that wilder part of his heart.

He knows Dutch senses it—Hosea holds for certain that they’ve shared enough through the years for Dutch to know all about of his sharpest edges—but he doesn’t shirk under its threat. In spite of his building-up fury, Hosea prefers that to the alternative, because he and Dutch never initially recoil from each other. Be it in exasperation or fondness, in agreement or dispute, honesty has always been their constant, the language adopted and spoken by their souls since that night they met on a desert road. Anything else would mean a loss greater than any discord could ever provoke, one that his heart could never reconcile with.

The tightness that still seizes his throat, however, makes him taste bile.

“We’re not exactly gonna make much progress if you keep pestering me or anyone with your worryin’, and Arthur certainly isn’t gonna get things _done_ if you start mother-henning him.”

Hosea slowly lets his hands drop to his sides and walks around Silver Dollar’s head to stand right in front of Dutch. Sensing his master’s agitation, the stallion jerks his head nervously behind him. When Hosea looks back up at Dutch, he knows his eyes are an equal match to Dutch’s during his worst days.

“I am going to pretend I didn’t just hear you talk about our son like he’s a damn workhorse when we’ve been running from another disaster you caused in Valentine and he’s been nothing but eager to make things work for us in this wretched land of white trash and hillbillies. And I’m going to pretend I don’t think your paralyzing fear of being wrong is going to damn us all to hell and back if you don’t pull your head outta your ass soon.” The volume of his voice is steadily increasing, and Dutch’s initial shock soon morphs into quiet rage. “And I’m damn well past asking you to start showing you care because _Arthur is gone_ , and if you’re not coming after him then _I bloody hell will!_ Now get outta my way!”

Hosea doesn’t wait for Dutch to take a step back and all but shoves past him to mount Silver Dollar.

Dutch’s eyes are two black stones as he snatches one of Silver Dollar’s reins. Hosea’s hands only squeeze them harder.

“What the hell are you trying to prove here, Hosea?”

“Nothing, Dutch. Absolutely nothing!” He’s unmistakably shouting now. “You’re the one too busy proving that you’re always so right that you refuse to even consider the possibility that Arthur’s in danger, and _I_ was a fool for letting you _seduce_ _me_ into thinking everything was alright. Now get your hands off my horse!”

A flash of hurt cracks through Dutch’s wrathful expression at Hosea’s insinuation, and it’s so brief that anyone else would have missed it. “That… wasn’t what I was doing, Hosea,” he growls as anger pours over his face like a cascade again, because God forbids Dutch van der Linde should ever be caught vulnerable during a dispute. He lets go of the rein, not in defeat but in revolt, like a child trying to make a point. “You’re impossible. Just go then, go if that amuses you, goddammit!” His deep, suddenly cracking voice thunders so loudly Hosea knows everyone in camp has heard it, all the way to the lake.

“Yes, I will. And alone, apparently!” Hosea bellows, never one to back down when it matters, not even when it hurts. Because it does hurt now… for various reasons he doesn’t want to pick apart because he can’t afford the luxury of wallowing if he wants to focus on his task.

Dutch throws his arms up in the air as he takes a step back, then retreats back to his tent, his furious stride not quite muffled by the loose soil under his feet, and Hosea tugs his reins a bit too harshly before he can see him disappear behind the chalky flaps, leading Silver Dollar to the barrier of trees that conceals their camp from the world. The stallion is already trotting, his muscles bracing for an upcoming gallop, when the last person Hosea wishes to see just steps on his path, ten feet away from him.

“Outta the damn way, Micah,” Hosea warns, reining in his horse, the sound of his stomping hooves a fitting echo to the turmoil inside him.

“What’s all the fuss about, old man?” Micah asks, his tone pliant although Hosea knows better. He takes measured steps toward him, his gait somewhat hunched with the way his shoulders slightly lean forward.

Hosea doesn’t know where he finds the patience to answer him instead of simply bolting off. “Going after Arthur, since you and Dutch didn’t think it necessary to check on him.”

“Why all the worryin’, Hosea? Told you, Morgan is _fine_.” His nasal drawl stretches on the last word, a speech quirk that has taken the habit of getting on Hosea’s nerves. “I told Dutch—”

“I don’t need you to repeat to _me_ what you told Dutch,” Hosea barks. “Now move!”

He kicks back his spurs and sends Silver Dollar into a gallop, not sparing the man another glance.

He’s barely made it twenty yards outside the canopy of the trees, his eyes still adjusting to the bright, unobstructed Lemoyne sun, when he hears the sound of another horse running behind him. His heart pumps faster as the wild hope of seeing a white Arabian emerge from the forest surges in his mind, but grinds his teeth at the unnerving sight of Micah riding Baylock.

“I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you, Hosea. I got it, I’m not here to stop ya. Since you’re so worried, figured someone might as well come witcha.”

“How generous of you,” Hosea replies darkly, squinting at him as Micah gets to his and Silver Dollar’s level. “You always so _keen_ on helping others.”

“Hey, I’m tryin’ to do my part, same as everyone else, old man,” Micah counters, shrugging one hand up in the air, ironically revealing the nonexistent amount of helpfulness Hosea thinks he’s displayed over the last couple of days.

Hosea’s eyes narrow further. “And you’d go with me although you and Dutch are _so_ certain that he’s alright, now?”

“Well, I _am_ sure he’s alright. But _you,_ now...” Micah utters, and the gleam in his eyes almost turns his expression into a sneer, “who knows? The boss wouldn’t be too pleased if something happened to you.”

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, Micah, and even if I weren’t, you would never be my first choice to watch over my back.”

The fleeting scowl he spied on Micah’s face on previous occasions when they more or less expressed their mutual aversion appears once more, quickly replaced by the submissive look he drapes himself in when he addresses Dutch… or even him, whenever he forgets that, contrary to Dutch these days, Hosea has little time nor taste for bootlicking.

“Listen, Arthur saved my life in Strawberry. And I know I still need to make amends to Dutch for being a bad boy. To _you all_ ,” he makes a point of adding, and Hosea is this close to roll his eyes. “And maybe you don’t like me much but I’m tryin’ real hard to follow your rules and codes, ya know.”

There are no words to describe what a tremendous understatement the first half of Micah’s last claim is to Hosea’s ears, and his involvement in their current predicament does nothing to alter his appreciation of the man in any sort of positive light. He doubts anything ever will. Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell possessed Dutch to ever let that man inside their gang. God knows nobody among them is a saint, but Micah is ruthless, downright vicious in a fight—which he assumes is the reason why Dutch keeps him around, and not just because the man likes to roll himself on his back to show his belly like a well-trained poodle in front of his master. If he has any capacity for love and compassion, Hosea doubts he ever puts it to use, if one excludes his sinister attachment to his twin guns.

 _But_.

Micah is still one of them.

Hosea exhales the longest of sighs. His principles and pragmatism feel more like burdens than crutches in this instant. He already knows that Micah’s presence, although unpleasant, _might_ prove beneficial. If Arthur truly does need help—Hosea’s throat constricts itself at the mere thought—then a second pair of guns might make a big difference. All the difference. When it comes to Arthur, this isn’t something he can permit himself to neglect.

“You went to that parley, so we’ll sure gain some time if you lead the way.”

Micah’s lips pull back to reveal his yellowing teeth in an unsettling rictus. “Sure thing, _boss._ ”

Hosea doesn’t rise to the provocative bait, only too happy to keep his eyes on Micah’s back rather than the reverse as the dust of Lemoyne swirls behind on their horses’ heels.

* * *

The shadows of the Twin Sisters, seemingly infinite under the declining sun, spill over the plains like the two ghosts guarding a realm untouched by man. Of course, his mind knows better, but his mountain-born spirit finds comfort in the possibility that _some part_ of this wild terrain will remain so, long after he’s gone from this Earth.

Were it under different circumstances, Hosea would appreciate being back in the Heartlands, but he can’t find enough peace of mind in him to give the place the attention it deserves, save for the tracking of former human presence in its grass.

Micah gave him a vague indication of where Arthur was supposed to hide as the parley took place right down the hollow overlooked by the two majestic mesas, grumbling about how he couldn’t know his exact location since he was down there with Dutch, and if Hosea keeps his sarcasm and accusations to himself, it’s only so he can concentrate harder. Micah has alternated between moments of uncomfortable silence and short attempts at convincing Hosea that he was all but a newly cleaned-up sheep on its merry path to epiphany within Dutch’s flock. It’s when Micah precisely uses that dubious simile as Hosea crouches down on the ground of a nearby hill on the western side of the valley that he seriously considers suggesting _he starts_ _grazing on grass, then_.

Hosea reflects once more about the exact headland he thinks Arthur would have picked to ensure the best vantage point should have anything gone wrong, as well as the most ideal cover among all the possibilities. He’s fairly certain at that stage that the one he’s standing on fits the bill, but he still has to find the exact place where Arthur waited, which is why he ignores Micah and starts moving along the cliff’s edge at a reasonable distance until he spots what he’s looking for.

For a minute, Hosea was concerned that humid weather and wind might purely and simply have erased any track. But he soon finds a large spot of flattened grass, the one he’d expect to find if a large person had squatted down to aim a scoped rifle toward the hollow of the glen.

“He was here,” he breathes out, exchanging a glance with Micah who’s standing a good fifteen feet behind him, hands resting against his hips and eyes displaying an offensive lack of interest.

“Still haven’t lost your touch with tracking, have you, old man?”

Hosea clicks his tongue impatiently, but reports his attention back to the ground, his eyes scanning for nearby horse prints. There’s no doubt Shepherd would have been up there with Arthur, and if he went off on his own unscathed as Dutch and Micah claimed, he’ll see Arthur’s tracks leading to the massive Shire’s very recognizable prints.

His veins are flooded with relief when he finds clear large horseshoe marks in muddy patches of soil amidst the tufts of grass, only to freeze when other details mercilessly etch themselves into his sight.

There are at least three other sets of hoofprints. All of them, punctuated by human footprints, were incontestably made around the same time, and all are heading down the promontory in close proximity. Hosea scrambles back toward the first horse tracks he’s found, and his eyes widen in horror as he realizes these come from a slightly different direction but eventually merge with the others on their way back. Hosea stares at the tracks for a whole minute. A stampede of visions—none of them good—plays in front of him as he searches for any clue, any blade of grass or any turned stone that might give him an actual proof that Dutch was _right_ and that his initial intuition and newest conclusion were _wrong_. But each one of his heartbeats, which he can hear too clearly right now, sounds like a sentence. An _accusation_.

He springs toward Silver Dollar and all but leaps onto his saddle, not bothering to call to Micah as he passes by him, and pays even less mind to his annoyed cry of surprise. He kicks Silver Dollar into a quick trot down the hill, not daring to go faster for fear of losing the trail, but hating how slow everything seems compared to his own pulse.

It takes him twenty minutes to find the next clue behind a nearby hillock. He spots more signs as they both dismount: more of the same horse tracks, but also remnants of a recent fire—less than twenty-four hours old judging by the wood—and over there…

_No. Please no._

“Found something, old man?”

The crack of a match being lit right behind him might as well be the toll of a bell.

Next thing they know, Hosea backhands Micah’s freshly lit cigarette out of his fingers and grips him by the collar of his shirt. “Care to repeat me what you told Dutch yesterday now?”

“Let go o’ me, you—”

“There’s _blood_ over there, you fucking nuisance!” he explodes, feral. “ _THEY TOOK ARTHUR!_ They took Arthur and you two didn’t see anything!”

“I said—“

But Hosea couldn’t care less about any word that would spill out of the bastard’s mouth and shoves him _hard_ , making him stagger on his feet under the force of the push, and Hosea’s fists are tight and trembling at his sides.

“I should have known. Dammit, I knew, I _knew_ something was wrong! I knew this was a trap, and Dutch should never have listened to you or Pearson and _GODDAMMIT!_ ”

His boot sends the remains of the fire flying in a violent kick, and there’s not enough ache in his bones that could compare to the raw, primal _fear_ devouring his stomach. His chest is heaving with rapid, furious breaths, and the burn spreading in his lungs, like embers threatening to rekindle under a vengeful wind, anchors him as much as it reminds him of his too many failings and failures with vicious and visceral tangibility.

_And I should have done more._

Every disaster they’ve encountered… It always boils down to the same mistake: he should have done _more._

Images of Bessie, Dutch, Arthur, John, all of them living, hurting, _dying,_ keep assaulting his mind, and he has to close his eyes to shut them down and gain back the control he so desperately needs if he is to fix this.

_Get Arthur back. That’s all that matters right now, nothing else._

_Get him back._

When he opens them, his eyes are irremediably dragged back to the dark crimson stain, blackening the grass as if to blame and mock him. The soft breeze itself almost sounds like a taunting whisper. _Too late_ , it hisses.

Except it’s a stain. Wide and accusatory, but it’s no pool. A simple stain. Not enough to confirm that possibility Hosea is only too profoundly conscious of but has to keep at bay for his and Arthur’s sakes. _Not yet_ , he thinks with a shiver.

The breeze gets swallowed by a powerful gust and Hosea straightens his back.

It’s not too late, not if he has anything to say about it.

And Hosea always got plenty to say.

He can feel Micah’s eyes boring holes in the nape of his neck, and his hands instinctively go to rest on his hips, lax but unshaken, driven by something greater and deadlier than whatever venom Micah is about to spill because of Hosea’s outburst.

Sure enough, Micah glares at him with a smirk that would see off even the meanest coyote. “Alright then, Matthews, just so things are clear… I get that you get all worked up and angry about what was an honest mistake.” His smirk widens but somehow loses all pretense of friendliness. “And I know you and the boss, hmm… _go way back_ ,” he adds with a disdainful disgust that makes Hosea’s skin crawl. He takes a couple of steps until they’re but a feet apart, too close for Hosea’s liking, but he makes a point of remaining impassible. “But I sure don’t appreciate bein’ shoved around because you’ve lost your precious pup, alright? _Some_ of us got our manly pride, you see?”

His hand brushes his right side, pushing away his dust coat to reveal his holster and finally rest on the grip of his revolver.

Silence stretches between the two men like the rope that connects the scaffold and the culprit’s neck, waiting for the hangman to pull the lever and put the train of time back on its tracks with the long-awaited snap.

Hosea returns the man’s stare, then takes one slow, deliberate step forward, fully invading _his_ space, the rims of their respective hats touching. He doesn’t miss the way Micah’s neck instantly flinches back, no matter how much he tries to conceal it.

“Of course,” he replies, his tone even. “And since we’re in the business of being clear with each other, I think it won’t be too much to remind you that the guns you carry and the guns I carry… See, they’re _ours_. Not Dutch’s. And the protection your guns give you is just as good as the protection mine give me. And I find it funny you’d assume Dutch has any place in that conversation, because I been carryin’ those revolvers for years now. And they’ve served me quite well. More than I wish they had, to be honest,” he adds, because being forced to step into Micah’s world of unchecked brutality if only to reject it just makes him sick. “But unlike you, I take no twisted pleasure out of it. And I know this is what makes you certain you’re in a good position to tell me what you just said, but I can assure you one thing: protection got nothing to do with pleasure. And I’m _very good_ at it.”

Micah’s nostrils flare, and his expression carries no trace of that ugly smile he bore on his face seconds ago. Both men stand unmoving. A current of calm determination washes over Hosea. His heartbeat slows down, subjected to the strange irony of finding in Micah the catalyst he needed to regain his focus on what he has brought him here in the first place.

He’s about to put an end to this stupid game when Micah yields his ground. “Hey, didn’ mean nothing by it,” he cajoles, gestures of surrender returning as shortly as they left. “We’re on the same team here. Same team.”

Hosea doesn’t flinch. “Good. Now go back to Clemens Point and warn Dutch. I’m gonna follow the tracks,” he says, moving past Micah to get back to his horse.

“Now, wait a second, old man…”

“Micah—”

“I just mean,” he drawls, “that them O’Driscoll boys are probably a happy lot, with way more than two guns, and you’d be on your own. Now I know I’m not the calculating type like you, Hosea, but I’m not sure them are good odds.”

Hosea frowns but stops in front of Silver Dollar, his lips pressed into a hard line. He has no intention of stopping until he’s found Arthur and even less intention to wait for any backup, because if Arthur is hurt…

“You might be good with ‘em guns, but that won’t matter if it’s you against ten O’Driscolls.”

Hosea bows his head and suppresses a cough, trying to ignore the new rise of discomfort in his chest. Finding himself in agreement with Micah is nowhere near agreeable, but he has little choice given the urgency of the situation. Depending on what they find at the other end of that route—and where that route ends—he’ll be free to reexamine his options.

“Come along, then”, he gives in.

He puts his foot in the stirrup and throws his right leg over the saddle when his lungs suddenly give out under an invisible pressure. Coughs rattle his entire frame, and he has to bend over Silver Dollar’s neck and clutch to the saddle horn as the fit refuses to recede. When it finally does, his breathing comes out as this pathetic raucous wheeze. It takes him a moment to regain any sensation that is not that of icy claws latching their way up his chest and throat. Only when the white-hot blaze in his lungs subsides into a bearable burning does he sense a soft pressure against his left foot. He looks down to find Silver Dollar nudging his boot with his muzzle, his dark eye shining bright with immeasurable gentleness.

“Good boy,” he whispers, his breathing still too ragged and his voice too shaky to allow for more than those two simple words. He pats and rubs his old friend’s neck, lets his fingers card through his mane and clings to it as he gives his flanks a gentle tap of the heels.

“Don’t go die on me just yet, old man.”

Hosea ignores the gleeful scorn in Micah’s voice, sets his eyes on the horse tracks and his thoughts on Arthur.

_Hold on, dear boy. I’m coming to get you._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants some extra babble as to how this thing came into being? It's your lucky day!
> 
> You know how some ideas just start as “ohhh, I haven’t seen this trope written as much as I want it to be (if at all), so I guess I’m gonna fix that”? And you know how some fic projects just start as “this will probably be just a one-shot” and then… it’s… not? Well, there you go with this fic.
> 
> I was minding my own business, playing some RDR2 (that happens a lot in my life), thinking about how much I love these characters and suddenly… _Micah_ was himself, kicking that poor Cain while I was enjoying the peace of Clemens Point in the midst of this dysfunctional cowboy family. And that’s when I put down my controller and thought “that’s it, I need to do something about this f*cker” by other means than those provided in the game. I let it rest for a few days, with no idea in mind whatsoever. And then I was musing about my two favorite boys, namely, Arthur and Hosea. During that musing, it came to me that… truly, Hosea was Micah’s polar opposite (both in terms of personality and regarding the roles they play at Dutch’s side). And that if Hosea hadn’t ~~died~~ during that bank robbery, Micah might just have tried to get rid of him in a more direct manner. It also came to me that I desperately craved a confrontation between the two and that there was a definite lack of this on this website.
> 
> Thus I had my idea all ready to be exploited. I just needed the right context within canon that could host what would definitely be the starting point of an alternate universe (because yes, I was aiming for a Micah-free happy resolution for the van der Linde fam, here… and that entailed catching Dutch in his slow descent at a point where turning back might just still be possible). With that in mind, turns out I only had to look at the other things I crave: family feels. Good old hurt/comfort. Hosea and Arthur being the perfect recipients for those tropes, the rest occurred quite naturally: my starting point had to be “Blessed Are the Peacemakers”. Two weeks later, and here I was, with this completely self-indulgent fic which I hope might satisfy some of you as well. One thing leading to another, it soon became clear that this was becoming too long to be a one-shot as I kept adding development around the context I needed. Luckily, I might have accidentally designed this story into 3 clear acts. Good thing too, because I loved writing the resolution of that fic with my three favorite outlaws. Yes, I repeat, this AU will have a happy ending… and much needed catharsis if you feel disgusted by a specific kind of rats… or snakes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE, I’M UPDATING BEFORE SUNDAY because this is my fic, and I do what I want, your honor.
> 
> I cannot thank you all enough for the comments and appreciation you gave Chapter 1. I hope you’ll like this one too… Although, please… Don’t throw stones at me, I’d rather have tomatoes, they’re softer. I love them cowboys, I swear to you I do… It ain’t my fault if canon started this. I’m only tweaking stuff… See you next week!  
> Before going, some **content warnings** for **mentions of torture** , **graphic emergency surgery** and **depiction of violence**. Oh also, I believe I added the Major Character Death warning.

* * *

Hosea rides hard and never stops, save for times when the trail nearly disappears only to reemerge a few yards away. Despite Micah’s numerous requests and complaints, they’ve crossed half of New Hanover without a break, and Hosea will cross West Elizabeth at the same speed if he has to. Silver Dollar runs on the wind, in tune with his distress like he’s just as desperate to find Arthur as he is. For all Hosea knows, maybe he is. Hosea has noticed many times how, whenever Arthur carries the haystacks all the way across camp in the small hours of the morning with half of them still snoring in their bedrolls, he always makes sure one of them isn’t too far from the grey Turkoman, and Silver Dollar has always shown incredible goodwill toward the boy in return.

“Come on, Silver, that’s good!”

The stallion neighs and keeps pushing, and Hosea locks himself in the promise of feeding him all the best apples of Lemoyne when they’re back home once all of this is done and over.

The morning at Clemens Point and the echoes of his fight with Dutch already feel like a distant memory, and whatever exhaustion Hosea should feel in his limbs is relegated to a level of knowledge just as remote. The reds of the twilight sky have faded into purple hues, the last lights of the sun now shimmering on the surface of the Dakota River that stretches through the valley below them like a serpent sleeping under the shadow of Bard’s Crossing.

The spectacle would have him stare in awe if it didn’t confirm the fear he’s been harboring for the last six miles. “They’ve crossed the river,” he tells Micah, reining in his horse, eyes still on the trail that is fortunately still visible in the humid soil of New Hanover. “Let’s hope they crossed in a straight line.”

He doesn’t want to think how much precious time they could lose if those O’Driscolls happened to be sharper than the usual dull tools Colm recruits in his ranks and made an effort to conceal their tracks from potential hunters by going back upstream. That bloodstain on top of the hill is still too vivid in Hosea’s mind, like a dark mark always present in the corner of his vision, no matter where he looks. With nighttime approaching, the clop of their horses’ hooves is like the ticking of a watch.

“And what if we can’t find more tracks on the other side?” Micah asks, lying back on his saddle, wrists crossed on the horn.

“There _will_ be tracks on the other side, somewhere,” Hosea retorts. “No matter where they are, we’ll find ‘em. Come on.”

Hosea draws a line parallel to the gigantic bridge that looms over the valley, screwing up his eyes in the hope of catching the trail on the opposite bank as water licks Silver Dollar’s knees. He bites down an exclamation of triumph when he finds it exactly where he hoped, right in front of them.

“Thank you, Colm, for picking the biggest dimwits in the country,” he mumbles to himself.

The first stars have already broken through the thin veil of dusk when they ascend the hill on the other side and reach the railroad. It’s lucky that Hosea’s brain is still running on steam even after the long hours of riding because otherwise, he might have missed the lantern glow piercing through a copse not even five hundred yards south from the rails.

Hosea stretches his arm backward. “Micah, stop, step back.”

“What now?” comes a growl behind him.

“Keep your voice down,” Hosea grinds as he opens his saddlebag to retrieve his pair of binoculars. It’s already too dark out there to make out the features of the man he catches in his sight, and the protection of the trees doesn’t make the task easy, but his target’s circular trajectory, as well as the unmistakable shape of a rifle lazily thrown over his shoulder, leave little room for doubt as to his role in this deserted place, especially given the direction taken by the trail they’ve been following. Another flicker soon catches his attention further down the hill. It’s distant, but he hardly needs more confirmation than this.

“I think we’re close. They watchin’ the roads, they got to be sittin’ around here,” Hosea mutters, raising his binoculars a second time, squinting harder in the hope of finding another, _bigger_ source of light.

“See something?”

“I think—” Hosea clicks his tongue, prompting Silver Dollar to advance a few steps. And then he sees it. Remote, concealed behind spread-out thicket patches, but less than fifteen minutes from there. “There’s a shack down there. Yes, I can see the lights. And probably more of them keepin’ watch all around.”

Hosea thanks his luck for turning the night into an ally. Not only are they offered the opportunity of cover but also the exact location of their hideout. Because where else could it be?

His heart pumps hard against his ribcage. Arthur is over there.

“We need to get closer,” he utters in Micah’s direction. “With the horses, I mean. You were right, there might be a dozen of them, and we can’t leave the horses too far if we gotta run.”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Micah says as he gets to his level, raising a cynical brow at him, “but the field is pretty much open. They’ll spot us before we can get halfway there.”

“Very observant of you, Mr. Bell”, Hosea replies with an exasperated roll of the eyes after what must be the man’s fiftieth display of foot-dragging today. “Which is why,”—he pivots on his saddle to draw a semicircle toward the East with his forefinger—“we’ll take a walk around. We’ll keep the lake on our left, follow the trajectory of the coast until we’re close enough to the cabin. From what I can see, it’s less guarded, at least for now. They’ll expect people to come from the road, but I doubt it’ll stay this way all night long. We can then leave the horses not too far and get closer on foot.”

Micah rubs his mustache with a quiet snigger. “Quite the planner, are you?”

Something in his tone makes Hosea bristle. “I’ve worked with Dutch for more than twenty years. I told you, I ain’t still breathing just out of dumb luck. Now let’s go. Not a sound.”

The coat of night has now fully fallen upon the land, with the moon wrapped in the obscurity of its clouds. If the uncompromising dark makes their progression more hazardous, Hosea still welcomes its cloaking. A dozen minutes later, they’ve reached a small grove eighty yards from the shack. One look underneath and behind him is enough to see the horses are getting tired, still heaving from their previous uninterrupted race. Hosea’s chest constricts at the sight of Silver Dollar lowering his neck in obvious relief when they halt. Hosea knows better than to tempt the devil; they’ll need their horses to be ready to give whatever’s left in them, and they need discretion.

He promptly dismounts, eyeing Micah doing the same. “Good job,” he praises into Silver Dollar’s ear, patting his neck softly. “Hold on there, we’ll be back and we’ll need you.” The stallion nudges his elbow with an affectionate snort, before returning his attention to the alluring grass.

He turns around, taking in the situation with a sigh. There’s no way at that distance to be certain of their exact numbers in spite of the lantern glows he can discern. And they haven’t located Arthur yet.

Hosea crouches down and makes his way to a nearby fallen trunk, beckoning Micah to follow with a wave of his hand. This is when he notices the horse shed siding the cabin, one large enough to store plenty of tools. Or a prisoner.

He also spots a wide-open basement door at the foot of the cabin. Two O’Driscolls—three if he counts that other one keeping watch over the fence planted six yards from the others—are pacing around the shabby building.

“He could be in either of them places,” Micah mutters between his teeth. “He might already be d—”

“You better not finish that sentence,” Hosea says sharply. “But yeah, he could be kept inside that shed over there too.”

“Then I propose an idea.” That sentence coming from his mouth would usually set all Hosea’s alarms off, but they haven’t come so far not to at least hear each other out. “We split up. One of us takes the cabin, the other the shed. We can’t go at the same time, they’re too close from each other, and we might need that sweet cover if the first one gets caught. Unless you prefer me to run all the way back to Lemoyne and warn Dutch while you wait here till morning,” he adds when Hosea gives him a severe look.

The ground grates under his boots as he shifts to take another look. There are many variables that they have no control over. And of all the people to take with him on a rescue requiring coordinated stealth, Micah is at the bottom of his list—with Bill, that is. The more he spins the situation and all its possible outcomes on themselves in his mind, the larger the lump in his throat gets.

Sending Micah back to Clemens Point would only leave him more vulnerable, and given Baylock’s state, Hosea might as well start camping if he were to wait for any sort of backup, a waste of time Arthur could certainly not afford.

He _hates_ this. There is so much that feels so utterly wrong, but again… _what choice does he have?_

“All right,” he sighs. “But I’ll go first. I’ll start with the cabin’s basement. It’s larger, might take longer if Arthur isn’t there and I have to check inside the house afterward. Wait until I get out the basement. If Arthur ain’t in there, I’ll be back quickly and start checkin’ the house, and then you can get closer, take a look at that shed. If Arthur is there, you stay with him until I get out, no point in making too much noise looking for me. If he ain’t in there, go back as quick and clean as possible. And Micah,” he marks a pause, staring hard at the man. “no gunshot. I mean it. They must not know we’re here. If you need it, use your knife. If shit hits the fan while I’m in there, stealth won’t matter much I guess, but otherwise, _no shooting_ unless absolutely necessary, am I clear?”

Micah slowly puts a hand over his heart. “Like crystal. I got your back, _boss_.”

Hosea prolongs his stare for good measure, then takes another good look at the moving shadows and lights around the cabin. As luck would have it, he can beeline to the back of the house easily enough, but it has to be _now_ , lest one of them decides to take a stroll around it, which is bound to happen at some point if he waits for too long.

He takes a steadying breath then makes his way toward the old shack, ignoring the painful pleas of his joints and lower back as he keeps his body low. He curses the regular cracks of his right knee, so conscious of the sound that he’s afraid they’ll hear it too. His hand hovers above the knife sheathed at his belt the entire time.

He can’t help a shuddering sigh of alleviation when he can finally press his back to the rear wall of the house, sparing a glance at the trunk still hiding Micah’s silhouette. He’s quick to hold his breath when he hears muffled footsteps coming from behind the cabin, on his left. A blurred shadow slowly cuts through the orange glow wrapped around the building like a prudent ghost. Without a sound, Hosea presses his left hand against the wall, bracing each muscle of his body, as the right goes for the handle of his knife, drawing the weapon out of its sheath in one swift movement. The shadow grows larger, then stops. Hosea can fully read the silhouette of the man on the golden grass, his slack shoulders, the way one of his hands rests idly against his hips… If he takes two more steps and looks down, the last thing he’ll see will be an old man springing to his feet and the flash of a blade, but he won’t have time to scream or even understand what hit him.

Hosea tightens his grip, taking small, shallow breaths through his nose. The guard’s annoyed sighs could be those of a bull in comparison.

The silhouette lingers for a few more seconds—an eternity for Hosea, whose pulse feels like the hammer of time. _Walk away, you moron. Let me pass. Let me get to him._

Then, at an excruciatingly slow pace, the shadow retreats.

Hosea waits some more before he permits himself to fill his lungs up—praying they don’t betray him now, of all times. He counts the steps until their sound dissolves into the night, then counts some more.

When he’s counted long enough, he makes his move. His joints crack only once, his whole body taut with both tiredness and concentration. When he’s made it to the next angle of the house, he peeps around the corner, eyes alert for the presence of any nearby sentinel. The one that walked away disappears around the other side of the cabin, while another stands watch in front of it at a reasonable distance. His fingers are busy rolling a cigarette, but his eyes are trained on the main road ahead.

A swift movement at the edge of Hosea’s vision draws his attention toward the small shed, making his heart pump faster. He realizes the movement is the swing of a tail and his eyes widen as they recognize, standing apart from the group of O’Driscoll mounts hitched to their posts, Shepherd’s white coat. Hosea can hear his blood beat against the cartilage of his ears. If any shred of uncertainty remained at the back of Hosea’s conscience then as to Arthur’s presence in this abandoned place, it is ripped apart at the mere sight of the faithful giant grazing peacefully.

Relief and apprehension meld together in his gut. He’s so close. The basement doors are wide open on his left. Four steps and he’ll reach them.

Hosea throws one last look at his surroundings, then bolts forward.

Darkness engulfs him as he takes quick careful steps down the old stone stairs.

The smell assaults him before he even reaches the basement floor. Hosea doesn’t gag, but his tongue rebels in his mouth. The odor is stale, but it’s more than that, it smells like…

Blood. And infection.

A dark shape is hanging from the ceiling, like some big game waiting to be skinned by the butcher. It’s only when he’s down the stairs, sight adjusting to the semi-obscurity of the place, that he realizes his mistake and the blood in his entire body turns to ice. The ground might as well have opened under his feet and dragged him right into hell. A fate preferable to that image which he knows he’ll never be able to erase from his memory.

Arthur. Hanging from the ceiling by his _ankles_. Union suit torn and bloodied in too many places. Arms limp, and blood oozing out of an ugly, terrifying dark hole in his left shoulder. His face half-covered by a ripped burlap sack, tied _around his neck_.

_His boy._

“Arthur!”

Hosea truly has no idea how he closes the distance between them. The horror that has taken hold of him both paralyzes his mind and injects his muscles with a frenetic physical _need_ to act.

His fingers are shaking as he tries to untie the cord keeping the sack’s opening _tight_ around his neck.

When it comes off, there’s no preventing the whine that escapes him. Arthur’s face, bearing the marks of blows, is sickeningly pale. And, worst of all, shows no signs of response.

“ _No_. No no no, Arthur… Arthur, it’s me, Hosea. Come on, son, wake up.”

His hands are still trembling as he spills pleading whispers and lowers himself to gently hold Arthur’s face between his palms.

That’s when he hears his breathing, shallow, but definitely there. Enough to pull back some of Hosea’s inner control from the treacherous slope it began sliding down.

Arthur’s eyes flutter open, painfully unfocused, searching. _Hurting_ , Hosea knows, sickness rising up his throat.

“Arthur, it’s me. You gonna be okay.”

“…’Sea?”

And God, Hosea doesn’t remember ever hearing his voice so weak, even in the worst days of his youth when Dutch and he were trying to coax him out of the shell he’d built around himself because his life had all but depended on it until they found him.

“You’re alright,” he breathes out, trying to mask the shaking of his own voice. The urgency of the situation hits him full force as Arthur winces. He stands up and looks around, searching for any slim instrument that would help him open the manacles around Arthur’s ankles. He might just use his gun if he can’t find anything in the next twenty seconds, discretion be damned.

That’s when he spots the dull file resting on the only semblance of furniture to his right, a wooden table lodged in one of the corners of the room.

One quick step and his hand closes around the tool, the blade thankfully thin enough to slip into the openings of the bracelets.

“Arthur,” he says, wrapping an arm around the boy’s waist, “I’m gonna get you down now, try to hold on to me if you can.”

The only audible response he gets is a low grunt, but Arthur’s right hand sluggishly reaches up. Hosea senses his fingers clutch the back of his vest, and the memory of a much younger Arthur—wide blue eyes of a boy plagued by ghosts still too real and tangible in the dark of the night, so desperately _alone_ and in need of a proof that the world could grant him a kindness—flares before his eyes, unforgiving, like a wolf going for the jugular.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, clenching the file tighter so as to stop the tremor of his hands once and for all.

The manacles, whose blunt metal has dug rings of fire into Arthur’s skin, are so old and corroded that opening one is enough for the second to yield under Arthur’s full weight. Hosea all but collapses too, his arms springing around Arthur’s neck and shoulders, wrapping himself around him to shield him from the fall.

Arthur’s stifled groan has the ice in Hosea’s veins feel colder yet. “I know, I got you. I got you, son, I got you.”

With Arthur’s body sprawled before him, his head resting on his lap as his chest rises more visibly now, Hosea can take in the full extent of the damage, and nausea returns to his stomach, gripping his insides in a vice of anger and shame.

This isn’t capture.

This is _torture._

Arthur was tortured for the goddamn pleasure of those sons of bitches this entire time while he and Dutch and everyone—

“ _Hosea…_ ”

And there, in the dark and stench of this godforsaken cellar, although time is running against them, although every muscle inside him is screaming to jump back into action, to take Arthur and run away from this wretched place as fast as the horses can carry them, he has _no choice_ but to take a second to hold him.

Be there for him.

A second is so much less than what the boy deserves, but above all, it is what he needs.

Just one second.

“I’m here, son. I’m here. You’re going to be fine. We’re leaving,” he keeps repeating. His fingers card through sweat-soaked hair, brushing it out of Arthur’s clenched eyes as he leans into Hosea’s touch.

“It was—it’s a trap,” he pants, reaching for Hosea’s wrist. “Colm, he—He’ll bring the law, he wants Dutch, he wants everyone—”

“ _Shh_ , I know. It’s okay, Arthur. I told you, we’re leaving.”

Arthur’s grasp on his arm is light, too light. Hosea looks down at his left shoulder, and what he saw when he got down those stairs isn’t what he thought… it’s worse.

“Oh God, son, what have they _done_ to you?”

“…Shot.”

That doesn’t even begin to cut it. “This looks like a goddamn shotgun wound,” Hosea hisses between his teeth, feeling the latent rage that blossomed in his chest spread in his entire body.

The wound is still bleeding. He already knew as soon as he looked at the injury that he would have to close it somehow before they ran. Taking Arthur into a potential fight and then a race across states without doing anything about that gush would simply kill him.

He grunts in disappointment and guilt when the only useful concoction he can find in his satchel is a bottle of bourbon. The vision of the ginseng and yarrow plants waiting patiently near his bedroll to be milled into a tonic taunts him, but there’s nothing he can do about it now, and even if he had it, it wouldn’t nearly be enough.

Regrets won’t help Arthur. Actions will. With or without tonic, there aren’t many ways to deal with that kind of injury.

Hosea glances in the direction of the only source of light in the room: a single candlestick, sitting on the wooden table. Its ominous glow hugs the ambient gloom like a submissive spouse.

“I gotta close that wound, Arthur. We don’t have much time,” he sighs, dislodging himself from under Arthur to rise and take hold of the candle.

Another grumble passes through the barrier of Arthur’s lips, too weak for Hosea to understand. “What is it, son?” he asks as he crouches down beside Arthur again, grabbing the whiskey bottle.

“Still inside… The bullet still inside.”

Hosea’s heart sinks inside his chest.

“Alright,” he breathes. “Alright, Arthur, I need you to—” he unties his neckerchief, refusing to even _look_ at the bag they covered his face with “—bite into this, okay?” God knows they both get the drill now, after all these years chased by bullets and wild animals, but Arthur’s consciousness is tilting over a dangerous precipice, and if Hosea’s sense of touch hasn’t failed him, he’s already running a fever. “I’m gonna make this quick.”

“I know you will.”

Hosea tries not to dwell on the absolute faith and trust pervading each of Arthur’s words and jagged breaths, the way one corner of his lips almost tilts upward in the phantom of a smile, and how it breaks every fiber of Hosea’s heart.

He gently presses the balled up neckerchief between Arthur’s teeth, making sure he won’t choke on it, rubs hard the file against the sleeve of his shirt, then takes the bottle and uncorks it with his mouth to pour some of its contents onto the tool, paying no attention to the thick drops of whiskey splashing down his legs.

He’s been down that cellar for less than three minutes, yet time has stretched in an unnatural way, keeping each of his senses on a painful edge; the smells of blood and alcohol are filling his nose like they’re meant to replace oxygen; his palm can feel every dent in the handle of the file; his ears are too aware of the hoarse, stifled gasps coming from Arthur’s obstructed mouth and the too fragile silence from upstairs. And his eyes can see all the gruesome details of the torn and burnt up flesh of his shoulder.

Everything else in his vision gets blocked out as he plunges the file into the seeping wound.

The reaction is immediate. Arthur’s spine arches up, his fists clawing at the ground as he buries his pain into the fabric in his mouth. The volume of his moans would be low even without the neckerchief, Arthur doing his utmost to keep silent, but to Hosea, they still resonate as loud as howls.

Yet, he doesn’t retreat and _drives it in_ , trapping Arthur’s arm under his knee to keep it from twitching. The dreadful possibility of having to use his hunting knife to dig for the bullet starts licking the back of his mind when he feels and hears the tip of the file meet a metallic obstacle.

“I got it. I got it, hold on.”

The sound of Arthur’s flesh bending under the pressure of the rough instrument thankfully gets drowned under his muffled panting.

Hosea twists his wrist once. Twice.

The bullet suddenly comes out and drops right by his thigh, its squashed shape almost comical in contrast to the damage it has wrecked. But more importantly, it is _whole_.

Hosea doesn’t even blink as he pours some more alcohol onto the wound without wasting any second, doesn’t flinch or stop when a whine escapes Arthur’s throat, no matter how he wishes he could.

Because he’s not done. The thought of being the one adding to Arthur’s torture should be enough to make him retch in the far corner of the room. The fact that it doesn’t floods him with a revulsion that has nothing to do with Arthur’s physical state.

But _damn him_ if he ever lets his self-disgust get in the way of saving him.

He withdraws a cartridge from the back of his gunbelt and bites it open, the acrid taste concealing some of the ferrous stench of blood for a precious few seconds.

The respite in Arthur’s shivers enables him to dust a thin layer of powder over the oozing hole, his eyes trained on the source of the ongoing bleeding.

When he seizes the candle, he almost makes the mistake of looking down at Arthur’s face. He bites his tongue instead, strengthens his hold on Arthur’s arm, and then says: “I’m so sorry Arthur, it’s gonna hurt. I gotta cauterize it. Hold on.”

He waits for a sharp inhale, then lowers the flame.

The jolts that shake Arthur’s body are twice as violent as when he probed his shoulder with the file. And this time, Arthur wails openly, his head jerking from the left to the right, his other hand reaching for Hosea’s shoulder—in a desperate need to hold to something or to make him stop, Hosea can’t say. The smell of scorched skin and blood takes over everything.

“It’s okay! It’s okay, it’s done now. You did so well, son,” he croaks, reaching for Arthur’s hand and holding it there, squeezing, the candlestick forgotten next to him. “So well. It’s done _._ _It’s done._ ”

He removes the now wet fabric from Arthur’s jaw and throws it away. His hand instantly returns to cup Arthur’s face, waiting in a silent, agonizing apology for Arthur to relax in his hold, to breathe evenly again. “It’s done,” he keeps repeating. “It’s done, come back, please.”

Arthur’s eyes are still shut tight, fighting against the pain as they try to open themselves to the reality of his prison when the world comes crashing down on them with the deafening roar of a gunshot.

The silence that follows is the same sort that precedes storms. Then it is torn apart by the echoes of shouts above them.

_“Where the hell did that come from?”_

_“The cabin! Go check downstairs!”_

_“What the hell are you doing, you fuckin’ morons? There’s someone out there!”_

Hosea’s breath seizes in his lungs. Every muscle in his body tautens like the string of a bow. Arthur’s own body seems to absorb his tension, as he tries sitting up.

And then, feet hit the first step of the stairs with awful clarity.

It doesn’t take more for Hosea to spring into action. Cautiously letting go of Arthur, he slides toward the wall at the bottom of the stairs, leaning flat against the cold stones. His hand is firm on his knife when the footsteps reach his level.

There’s a beat when the hovering light of a lantern catches Arthur’s listless frame on the floor.

“What th—”

The man’s voice drowns in his own blood as Hosea’s blade slices his throat open. An abhorrent gurgle escorts his descent to the ground. Hosea thrusts his knife back into its sheath with a sharp thud, trying to suppress with it the noise of the man dying at his feet.

He runs back to Arthur, who’s already straining himself to get up, offering him his shoulder, a meager crutch as the boy pants louder while trying to inject strength into his wobbly legs.

“Sorry…”

Hosea shakes his head. “It’s okay, Arthur, lean on me. We need to go, there’s more comin’. We’ll get the horses and…”

A nasty realization dawns on him then, the kind of blazing intuition armored with implacable logic that will slowly but surely gnaw the resistance of his doubts. He can hear the shouting and stomping of O’Driscolls running about… But there is no shooting contest. No backfiring of any kind after that one single shot.

_What on Earth has Micah done?_

Hosea looks back at Arthur whose head is bowed under the effort of both standing up and repressing the pain coursing through him. “Okay, son,” he whispers, soft but urging. “You’re ready?”

There’s little he can catch from Arthur’s sluggish grunts, but among the discordant syllables, he hears a whispered “ _always_ ”.

Hosea swallows. He lets his hand ruffle Arthur’s soiled hair before gripping the side of his chest. “Atta boy.”

There’s a rattle building in Hosea’s chest as he all but drags Arthur up the stairs at a quicker pace than what the man’s legs are capable of, but his lungs hold on, something in Hosea’s blood willing them into submission because there is no way his body’s giving up on him _now._

Hosea’s hair suddenly stands on the back of his neck, prompting his hand to fly to his holster half a second before a shadow appears at the top of the stairs, hands clasped around a rifle.

“They’re here! Morgan’s gettin’ away!”

Hosea’s wrist flicks and the man’s skull blows up in a loud detonation.

The cold air of the night is already flowing down their throats before the body even hits the bottom of that hellish pen.

Arthur stumbles once, deprived of the support of Hosea’s hand, but catches himself quick. How he could even find the strength to _stand_ after two days of hanging by his ankles with an infected shoulder and his body subjected to whatever violence tickled Colm’s sadistic fancy, Hosea can’t even begin to imagine.

Except that Arthur has always been a force of nature to be reckoned with. But it shouldn’t have to be so. It _shouldn’t_.

Any meager hope for a discreet escape is long dead and buried after that new shot.

Hosea leads them back the way he came from, keeping the cabin’s wall to their backs, Cattleman still smoking in his hand.

Another bullet flies right over his head, embedding itself between the old walled-up stones. Hosea fires back, his sights finding only obscurity to aim at.

A scream tears through all other sounds of confusion.

Silence ensues, followed by the shattering of glass… and then the world bursts into flames.

Hosea and Arthur are both forced into a squat, Hosea’s arm instinctively coming up to shield their faces from the blazing heat threatening to swallow them as the small wooden shed gets devoured by fire. The panicked cries of the horses join the chaotic chorus that has taken over the abandoned cottage.

Whatever sense Hosea could have made of the disaster playing around them is getting consumed by the one unanswered question that lingers over it all:

_Where the hell is Micah?_

There’s an earsplitting crack, and the horses are running free, the stampede of their hooves lifting a storm of dust soon absorbed into the roaring black cloud of fire smoke. Hosea’s mouth opens in a silent yelp as he catches a glimpse of a white tail disappearing into the dark.

At his side, Arthur is unaware of Shepherd’s flight into the wilderness. “Hosea… can help.” His chest is still heaving, but his eyes are valiantly displaying that determination that Hosea knows so well, eyeing the second Cattleman at his hip. Arthur then slides his arm off Hosea’s shoulder to give weight to his request, exhaling slowly through his mouth. “C’mon.”

Hosea draws his second revolver, making sure to keep trained eyes and ears on their surroundings—but the fire and smoke are making that a fool’s hope. New gunshots erupt around them, followed by one distant cry, then more detonations and swears, as if panic was ruling these men instead of gumption.

“Think you can shoot?” Hosea asks, searching for Arthur’s eyes as he hands him the gun.

His gaze drops for one second as he steadies himself to stand up again. It’s during that one split second that one of them, a six-foot-tall brute of a man—eyes glowing with a rage amplified by the reflection of the flames, features distorted in a vengeful grimace—rounds the opposite corner of the shack, coming face to face with Hosea, shotgun cocked and ready, cannon aimed right at his chest.

The next bang shakes Hosea’s bones. A shrill ringing assails his ears.

His eyes linger on the confounded expression on the man’s face, mouth open wide in a mirror image of the hole piercing his chest. And just like that, the murderous light flees his eyes as his body slumps unceremoniously against the wall.

Hosea spins around to Arthur still pointing his Cattleman right by his hip, the aim of his arm wavering, but fist solid as a rock.

“Yeah…,” he drawls. “Think I can.”

“Thank you.” Hosea’s smile is short-lived on his lips, as another O’Driscoll fades into view where the horses stood, his eyes set on Arthur’s back. Hosea locks his wrist and raises his arm without thinking. His bullet lodges itself into the man’s throat before he can raise his own weapon.

“Let’s go, Arthur,” he urges.

How many more is there? Could they even make a run for it without getting shot in the back?

“ _Micah!_ ” he howls in a mix of rage and anxiety, which proves to be a terrible mistake as smoke swamps down his throat, hitting his lungs with such force he feels like he’s been knocked by a horse. He bends over, the hacking worse than he could afford right now, and each cough is a blade slashing the inside of his chest.

“Dammit,” he croaks, trying to push on and put as much distance as possible between them and this inferno, “N—not now.”

Tears prickle the corner of his eyes, and Hosea prays that the shadows that start dancing before him are just puffs of smoke. He tries to whistle to call for Silver Dollar, but he’s so out of breath that there’s no way what comes out of his mouth is loud enough to reach his companion’s ears if he hasn’t run away from the fire already. But Silver is a good horse. If he could just—

Another shot resonates, very close, _too close_ , promptly followed by another before Hosea even has the time to turn on his heels. Whatever air is left in his tubes surely leaves him when he sees Arthur wrestling with a man whose wrist is clasped in Arthur’s grip, the fuming gun in his hand pointed at the sky.

“Arthur!” he gasps, panic deadening the rawness of his nerves in favor of pure instinct. His finger looms over the trigger of his gun but never has time to pull it, as fire suddenly erupts in his flank.

He doesn’t hear himself scream, but he hears the thunderous echo of the gunshot. And although he staggers, although his chest can barely fill itself with enough oxygen, although the world around them has turned into a tempest of heat and powder, the raw energy kicked into his system by the sight of Arthur grappling with the O’Driscoll is still coursing through his veins in that instant, muting everything else. His gun could be guided by an invisible force, for all he knows. His hand rises with otherworldly precision when he sees a tall shadow head straight for him.

The hammer of his Cattleman clicks and the world seems to explode around him as his own senses crash back into him.

The yell that follows isn’t his and it takes him too long to recognize the voice. The shadow collides with him, knocking his gun out of his hand and depriving him of much-needed air once more, his life-saving acuity leaving him just as abruptly as he finds himself pinned to the ground.

“Damn you, you just _won’t_ die, won’t you, old man?”

The world is spinning around him but there is no blur at the center of his vision. Only revolting clarity as all fragments of Hosea’s intuition seem to click into place like pieces of an incomplete jigsaw puzzle. But incomplete or not, through his own shock and horror, he understands enough. He _understands_ that first single shot that started it all.

There, towering over him with all his height, Micah, the origin of this infernal mess, grins at him like a famished beast.

“You shot my hand, Hosea. Hurts like hell, ya know?” he snarls. The pain that contorts his rictus sets his eyes ablaze as he all but shoves his bloodied hand in Hosea’s face.

“Micah,” Hosea coughs, wrath and fear tying a knot in his throat. “Micah, you fuckin’—”

The words die on his tongue as two hands suddenly clasp around his neck.

“See, I wanted to make sure the O’Driscolls got you and Morgan both and took you down, but you can’t trust them for shit, it seems. Settin’ themselves on fire and not even able to shoot an infirm and a geezer. _Oh_ , but I’m gonna enjoy makin’ you shut up _real good!_ ”

And he squeezes. And _squeezes_.

Hosea kicks and thrashes under him, tries to claw at Micah’s hands, his throat, his face but he has him pinned good, his weight crushing his chest and one of his arms like an anvil.

“Damn, I’ve been dying to do this for weeks. You have no idea, Hosea… How many times I almost killed you in your sleep. But oh no, I couldn’t, not with dear Dutch bein’ so close. So _damn close_ indeed, hmm?” he gloats, his face so very near now as he squeezes the life out of him he can feel the heat of Micah’s breath on his skin, mocking him as he so fruitlessly struggles for air. “And then, here comes Colm and his little plan. I almost killed you on the road too, ya know? But then I thought: better leave the fun to the O’Driscolls, hmm? That was the whole point, after all.”

The pain in his chest is immeasurable. Each second feels like a new flame inflating the blaze that threatens to blow his ribcage open. He’s long past feeling the sting of Micah’s nails digging into his skin or even the wound at his hip. The pressure is so strong he soon loses all sensation in his neck. But the throbbing of his head and torso is like a million needles as he suffocates.

“I wonder how Dutch’ll react when I tell him how you were so ruthlessly killed by his ol’ pal Colm. Think he’ll cry on my shoulder? Nah, that’s more your thing, ain’t it, old man?”

Black and white pearls lash at his vision until they get swallowed by utter blackness.

Micah’s laugh liquefies in his ears.

He barely has any consciousness of his arms and legs left.

Pain and apathy slowly mend together, eating at his last lucid filament of panic.

_Arthur._

_Please, not Arthur._

Blackness is everything now. Sound, feeling, and thought.

Until the scorching sharpness of _air_ pierces through it, running down his trachea like melted iron. The anvil crushing him is removed, and it’s like he’s floating. A new, blissful sort of pain awakens in him, tethering him back to the present, to the dirt and grass under him, to the fragility of his lungs and limbs as he coughs and gags like he’s experiencing air for the first time.

All sounds are subdued around him. His sight remains a blurry dance of multicolored spots. He doesn’t realize quite yet he’s rolled onto his side, one of his hands clutching at the dirt while the other desperately tries to close around some air. Micah’s gone, his deathly grip is gone, but he still feels like he’s dying. His brain struggles to take in what’s happening around him as a voice inside him _screams_ to do something before it’s too late.

He coughs, over and over. The harsh wheeze in his throat erodes the distinctness of all other sounds until it doesn’t no more. Noises of a struggle finally reach him like the proverbial tide. The edges of the moving shapes in front of him become clearer, sharper.

His blood-injected eyes eventually _see_ with terrifying precision the scene unfolding before them.

Arthur and Micah are fighting on the ground in a tangle of limbs next to a fresh O’Driscoll corpse, their dark silhouettes thrashing in a vicious shadow play against the wall of flames behind them. An armed hand emerges from the mass, only for the weapon to be slapped out of its owner’s grasp and sent flying into the air as the two men keep rolling in the dirt.

Although free of the traitor’s hold, Hosea still writhes on the ground, his lungs betraying him like they never did before.

“A—Arthur…”

A heart-stopping shriek suddenly rips through the chorus of vague grunts, and then Micah’s frame is looming over Arthur’s quivering body, his fist savagely grinding into Arthur’s left shoulder. There are no words Hosea can think of that can describe the howl coming out of Arthur then. It’s the worst sound Hosea could ever fathom as he strains with all his might to regain control of his rebellious body.

“Micah… _Stop..._ ”

He curses himself… for everything. For his withered lungs, for his aching bones, for not acting sooner, for not seeing Micah’s betrayal earlier, for his powerlessness, his _uselessness_.

_Get up, you worthless bastard. Get up!_

Arthur is still screaming when Micah’s ugly laugh resounds again: “Well, look at that! The dog still got some bite in ‘im. Colm should’ve killed ya right away. I’m gonna fix that.”

There’s a loud crack as Arthur’s fist connects with his nose. The fury of Micah’s yelp is turned into a punitive punch into Arthur’s face.

Then a second.

_Get up!_

Another punch.

_GET UP! GET UP, GODDAMN YOU!_

A yellowish spark then materializes in Micah’s unscathed hand. The reflection of the flames on the blade of the knife makes it look like liquid fire.

But it is nothing compared to what’s running in Hosea’s blood at this very instant. His world has narrowed down to one thing: the boy he’s raised for more than twenty years— _his son_ —is getting murdered under his very eyes.

The dam built on his failures crumbles under a torrent of primal rage and love _._ It opens a gate inside him, one looking onto a dark, ruthless past he left behind as he learned to change under the affection of the few people who gave meaning to his life in this cruel, incomprehensible world. One of them is lying here, only seven feet away from him, screaming for help he’s failed to provide.

And there’s room left for only one thought in Hosea’s mind right then:

_**ENOUGH!** _

With a speed he didn’t think himself capable of, Hosea lunges himself at Micah, locking his throat in the crook of his elbow. His hand claws at his wrist, trying to pry the knife away. He plants his two feet on the ground and arches his back, pulling Micah as far as he can from Arthur’s now motionless body with all the desperation he can tap into.

“You’re not _touching him_ no more!”

Micah’s grip on the weapon doesn’t yield, but he stumbles as he attempts to extract himself from Hosea’s hold. The loss of balance precipitates them both to the ground. Hosea throws a punch with all the force he can muster, forgetting the tumult around and inside him. He manages to keep Micah’s knife at bay, but it only comes at the cost of receiving a vindictive blow to the jaw.

Micah’s knee suddenly crashes into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him once more. The world becomes a blurred spiral as their bodies roll around in the dirt. In the blink of an eye, Micah is pinning him down again, blood oozing out of his broken nose and his injured left hand. The knife shines a sinister light in the other.

Not committing the mistake of indulging in the twisted pleasure of suffocating him this time, Micah wastes no more seconds and tries to plunge his blade into Hosea’s neck.

Hosea’s arms dart upwards, stopping the assault of the knife in mid-air with both his hands closed around Micah’s fist.

Two hands against one.

But Micah’s younger and stronger.

“Don’t worry, Matthews, I’ll make sure he remembers who sent him to hell when I’m done witcha!”

Hosea’s teeth grind so hard they might break in his mouth. Micah’s weight is too much for his already weakening strength. Blood is pulsing at his temples, and each second sees the tip of the blade get closer to his skin.

Hosea knows what this is.

_A losing battle._

An expression Dutch abhors. There were so many losing battles Dutch had won, bruised skin and victorious grins many times the sole trophies he could bring back from his wrestling against odds, fate, or even logic. Hosea lost count of all those days Dutch would come back to him battered and exhausted but chest puffed with the joy of simply being alive _._ Because some odds were but shackles, and he’d promised him they’d _live_ free. Hosea believed him then.

And Hosea chooses to believe him _now_.

Simultaneously, he pushes harder with his left hand and releases all the tension in his right arm. Instead of lodging itself into his throat, the knife dives straight into the upper part of his right shoulder.

Pain shoots through his entire arm like lighting. Hosea bites down his scream, can’t even tell if he’s split his lip open or not, because Micah is slumping against him, taken aback by this abrupt loss of resistance. Hosea uses the momentum to roll them over and extract the knife from his shoulder in the same movement.

For less than a second, Micah stares back at him with wide eyes. His surprise then morphs into a nauseating grimace of terror, the kind only death can spark, as Hosea drives the knife into his heart.

_“You go there first, you fucking snake!”_

If Micah emits a gasp, he doesn’t hear any, as Hosea yells and pulls out the knife to plunge it back in again. And _again_. Hitting with all the force of his exhaustion and rage.

The world swirls around him, hot air scorching is abused lungs and trachea. His eyes are stinging with unshed tears, his chest keeps heaving, making him pant like the wounded animal he is. The handle of the knife slips out of his bloodied grasp after the third blow as he achingly rises to his feet, his eyes glued to Micah’s horrifying and still so vivid expression while a pool of blood spreads under his body like a living well ready to swallow him into the ground.

A glint catches his peripheral vision. He recognizes one of Micah’s revolvers, lying two feet away, its black metal barely reflecting the light of the fire.

Hosea doesn’t know what drives him to limp toward the weapon then. It doesn’t quite feel like revenge or fear. It’s wilder than that. All he knows is that he wants this traitor’s foul print on this world and his _family_ to disappear. To throw it all back into the hell pit that spat him out.

He seizes the gun, praying he never sets eyes on it or its vanished twin ever again after this day, and shoots Micah’s unmoving corpse once. Twice. Thrice. The hammer clicks on an empty chamber on the fourth pull.

Three stabs. Three bullets.

 _You’re_ not _touching him no more._

“…’Sea.”

The sound is so low it’s a miracle he hears it over the storm of flames. But he hears it all right.

Dropping the cursed weapon, he gathers the last drops of energy left in him and limps toward Arthur, now lying several yards from him after his fight against Micah. So still. But _alive_.

“I’m here, dear boy. It’s over, he’s—” whatever has been keeping his lungs in check during his fight is slipping away, turning every intake of breath into another battle. “It’s over… We’re going home.”

If his breathing sounds like a broken engine, Arthur’s is way too quiet.

Decided on ignoring the fiery tendrils eating at him, he sucks in as much air as he can and whistles. The effort sends him to his knees right next to Arthur as he struggles against another fit.

“Come on, old friend,” he rasps. “Come on.”

Arthur’s eyes are shut tight, his twitching frown the only evidence of his consciousness. Blood is plastered over his union suit, and it’s practically impossible to distinguish the exact limits of the wound in his shoulder.

Hosea’s fingers find themselves carefully framing his face, threading through the tangled and messy locks. He blinks in detached confusion as the color of the hair changes under his touch before he realizes it’s the blood staining his own hands.

His fingers are overcome with tremors, but he can’t collapse. Not here, not _now_.

“We’re leaving… we’re leaving…”, he mumbles, to himself, to Arthur, it doesn’t matter anymore. _They’re leaving._

Perhaps catastrophes always come with their load of small miracles, because how could anyone begin to explain he still has it in him to lift Arthur’s chest against his, to rise up on his own two feet and drag the boy away from this hell, inches by inches? How could Arthur find enough strength in his legs to support his effort, no matter how feebly?

He doesn’t think about how he won’t be able to hold on for long, not with burning lungs, a bruised side, and a maimed shoulder. He doesn’t think about how there’s no hope for them to make it back across two states like this.

He just pulls, and pulls. Not thinking, simply doing _._

The first whinnying flies over the walls of his perception. The second, however, reaches past the fog dulling his senses, and it might be the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Silver…”

And sure enough, the gray stallion is cantering up toward them. At the sight of his master, he speeds up, then circles around them to stop right by Hosea’s side, offering his flank as a pillar of strength.

Hosea’s hand instantly reaches for his strong body, clutches his aging mane like he would a lifebuoy. Silver Dollar snorts softly.

“Good horse. Such a good horse. Let’s do this, old boy… Come on,” he wheezes. “Help me get ‘im up here.”

Hosea pushes himself harder against Silver Dollar’s side and presses his arm more firmly upon his neck. Slowly, Hosea lets his legs yield under his and Arthur’s weights, and Silver Dollar follows his lead, folding his legs with just as much care.

Putting Arthur onto the saddle remains a struggle, but they get there thanks to Silver Dollar’s patience and their combined exertion—Arthur is still conscious, thank heavens. Keeping his uninjured arm around Arthur’s middle, Hosea hauls himself onto Silver Dollar’s rump, right behind the saddle, securing the boy against him as firmly as he can.

“Get us home.”

Whatever jab he manages to give is enough to prompt Silver Dollar into a trot that soon turns into a prudent gallop, his thin sturdy legs beating the ground like a cavalcade of drums, taking them far away from this nightmare. The stallion pushes through the red halo projected by the fire until it turns yellow, then brownish grey, and then fades away completely, dissolved into the untamed darkness of the wild hills and forests. It’s like leaving the eye of a storm.

The quiet of the night seems able to absorb even Silver Dollar’s stamping. The purer, cleaner air becomes a cocoon, one Hosea wishes he could wrap himself into. But Arthur’s head is lolling from one side to the other right before his tired eyes, and Hosea cannot allow himself to loosen his grip on either him or Silver Dollar’s reins.

He presses his legs as hard as he can to maintain their balance on his old friend’s back. The effort costs him, as blood keeps pouring from the gashes in his flank and shoulder. His fingers are sticky with blood—his, Arthur’s or Micah’s, he doesn’t know—and each breath and jolt send a new spike of pain through his tightly drawn muscles.

The crown of the trees reminds him of mountain peaks and ocean waves under the surveillance of the moon as Silver Dollar races through the plains. The broken fractions of Hosea’s lucidity piece up together the image of Bard’s Crossing, its beams and pillars rising into the night like fruitless branches reaching for the heavens, striving to become something more. The far-off lake and the river drawn to its immensity shimmer like a wedding veil lost to the wind.

_Like the one she wore when they exchanged their vows, stars tangled in a stream of gold that would make the richest of men throw away all their ingot and coins._

A rasp slams him back to the present, followed by an absence of warmth against his chest. Arthur’s frame is slumping forward on the saddle like a fern curving under the mass of its leaves. His arm slides up Arthur’s ribs, fighting against the weight of the man’s torso as he pulls him back toward him.

“Arthur. Stay with me, son. Stay with me. Just a little more.”

“‘Sea…”

God, Hosea’s throat is like sandpaper scraping against shards of glass, but Arthur’s voice could be the whisper of death.

“I’m here,” he speaks softly. “I’m here. Hold on, Arthur, okay?”

But Arthur’s head is bobbing heavily, subjected to the pace of Silver Dollar’s gallop, his shoulders sagging like those of a puppet without strings. Almost on cue, the stallion starts slowing down to a more comfortable trot.

There’s a tremor in Hosea’s sigh when he tucks his nose into Arthur’s hair. A groan leaves the boy’s lips then, almost a death rattle. The sound is _so faint_ … yet so heavy with all the awfulness it shrouds. Something breaks inside Hosea. Words spill out his abused throat like a river buried under rocks, a weak thread of pleas and promises. He wills his whispers into an invisible safety rope that’ll hold Arthur against him, keep him awake and keep him _alive_ even if he has to parch himself to death.

“You’re alright. You’re alright, Arthur. You’re safe now. We’re going home. Be there soon. I gotcha, ya’ hear? I gotcha. Stay awake, eh Arthur? For me? Please? If I can at my age, you can, goddammit. You’re safe. I’m here. _I’m here._ ”

He’s so exhausted. The only sensation that ain’t killing him is the pressure of Arthur’s back against his chest. If this fades away, Hosea will have nothing left. So he keeps asking and pledging and pleading in a growingly incoherent stream of murmurs. They turn into sighs before he realizes it, and the nature around them is nothing but dark blotches and warped sounds.

“‘m sorry.”

His eyes widen, the two words boring a hole through the mist of his dizziness. Hosea feels like a black chasm has opened in his stomach as he registers the implications of Arthur’s apology.

“I‘m sorry.”

Arthur’s voice being louder the second time makes it worse.

“Oh, _Arthur…_ ” Hosea’s lips tremble as he nestles his face further into Arthur’s hair, holds him tighter, pouring all the truth sheltered inside his heart into his words. “Arthur, _no_ , you—” he draws a shaky breath. “It’s not your fault, son. Please, I swear to you. It’s not your fault. God, it’s not your f—”

The air splits open and the world crashes under them in a loud crack.

Silver Dollar’s panicked neighing pierces his eardrums in the trail of the gunshot. His sudden jolt upsets their already precarious balance, and he and Arthur are sent tumbling to the ground. Pain explodes in his flank upon impact, spreading in his abdomen like monstrous talons mercilessly mauling his insides as air is sucked out of him.

Arthur is coughing right next to him, chest panting erratically under Hosea’s arm, groans turning into moans as his own suffering keeps him prostrate in the grass. Hosea writhes under the lash of another coughing fit, his hand fisting Arthur’s suit in a desperate need to keep him close and ground himself into the now and then.

But he’s so tired, and he can barely see, and—

“Well, well. What have we here?”

Hosea wants to believe he’s heard wrong. That he’s conjured this veiled Irish accent from of his nightmares and memories. Because if he hasn’t, God, fate, or whatever power ruling this universe really _fucking_ hates them. Swallowing hard to contain the flames burning in his shoulder and his side, he strains his neck upward and meets the gleaming eyes of Arthur’s abductor and persecutor, perched on a black horse, arms crossed on his saddlehorn.

“C—Colm.”

“Fancy seein’ ya here, Hosea. Stealin’ things from others, as usual? You know, I had to work hard to get that one.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he gags.

“Now now, old friend, where’s that charmin’ silver tongue of yours?”

Cackles echo behind Colm. Hosea’s eyes squint but the two mounted silhouettes behind him remain concealed behind a haze.

There’s a loud thud as Colm gets off his horse, repeater swung over his shoulder and a devilish grin plastered on his craggy face.

“You set fire to my lil’ hide-out and killed my men. And you had me chase you an’ Morgan all the way to here. Now, what are we gonna do about that?”

The world is beginning to spin again. Hosea has to press his forehead against the ground, squeezing his eyes shut as the movement triggers another painful flash in his shoulder, darting all the way up to his neck. His hand clings tighter to Arthur’s clothes in a nervous jerk.

“I certainly didn’ expect you to turn up so soon. I sure regret Dutch ain’t here, though.”

Hosea’s cheek grates against the dirt as he looks up again, but Colm is now too close for him to see anything but his legs. “I… like to disappoint.”

“Clearly.” The sound of a match being lit up punctuates a pause, hefty with unspoken threats and a thirst for punishment. “But we still got time to fix that,” he breathes out eventually, the smile evident in his tone. He crouches down right in front of Hosea, who can now see the sadistic glint in his old enemy’s eyes. His golden tooth makes his rictus even more sinister in the pale moonlight. “Guess I don’t need to keep ya both alive for that, now, do I? One should do.”

Hosea’s stomach twists on itself as the implications dawn on him.

With a cruel chuckle, Colm blows a puff of smoke in Hosea’s face, prompting new series of throat-splitting coughs and spasms.

Colm rises to his feet and walks back to his goons. A beat. Then…

“We’re keepin’ Matthews. Get rid of Morgan.”

_“NO!”_

Utter terror makes his entire body convulse. His shoulder might be ripping itself apart as he drags himself over Arthur’s body to shield it with his own. His thighs and forearms are shaking pathetically when he tries to plant his elbows and knees solid on the ground, his other hand clawing at the soil underneath him. Arthur remains so desperately unmoving underneath him, but he can see it. The tiny rise and fall of his chest.

“No!” he croaks, paying no attention to the river of pain flowing inside him. “Shoot _me_ , not him! Colm!”

Colm grunts in obvious boredom, barely looking over his shoulder as he gives one of his men a nod of the head. “You’re much heavier leverage, dear Hosea. Dutch won’ even hesitate for a second, you know how he is. Also, look at him. Your boy here’s already dead. I’ll still get a good price for him, though. Don’t ya worry.”

Another set of footsteps gets closer as Colm retreats back to his horse. Hosea’s heart might be bursting out his chest. His own blood is like poison in his veins.

“Colm, please!” he begs, because that’s all he has left. No more tricks, no more bullets, no more strength. Only the warmth of Arthur under him, to which he holds on for dear life. “You have me, leave him alone, _please!_ ”

A boot viciously rams his stabbed shoulder, kicking him off Arthur and sending him into a brutal roll. He can’t make sense of the torture of his nerves when he finds himself pinned flat on his back by that same boot. The world is growing dark and cold. Drums are pounding in his ears, the ground, the very air around him. He can barely make out Colm’s snickering mockery: “… beggin’, now…”

Yes. Begging. He’ll beg all the gods and devils of this world and the next.

“Please…”

_Shoot me. Not him. Please._

_Not him!_

_Not Arthur!_

There is the cock of a hammer.

_Arthur!_

_**BANG!** _

Hot drops splatter across Hosea’s face, and the hard pressure that kept him powerless on the ground suddenly vanishes as his world collapses.

He doesn’t understand the vision of the gun that falls right next to his head then.

He doesn’t understand the loud thud of something heavier hitting the ground behind him.

He doesn’t understand the second detonation.

But he recognizes a voice. A booming baritone that strikes louder than thunder on the plains.

_“GET AWAY FROM THEM, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”_

More drumming hitting the walls of Hosea’s skull. _Hooves_. White equine ankles.

“You fucking—”

A third shot rings out.

Then harsh breathing. Whose, he can’t say. Can’t think much of anything now.

Except…

_Please, let Arthur be alright._

“Hosea! Arthur!”

 _And please let it be_ him _._

“Arthur! Son, it’s me! Y—You’re gonna be alright.”

_He’ll be alright. Has to be._

A shadow blankets his vision… one he’d recognize anywhere, anytime.

“Hosea! _Oh God_ , _Hosea_. Hang on, stay with me. I’m here! Come on, old girl, stay with me. Please!”

There’s a weight against him, _around him_. Christ, that’s the most beautiful shadow, the most beautiful voice.

_“Dutch…”_

The ghost of a smile pulls at his lips as hot, burning tears roll down his cheeks.

“T—Took you long enough.”

And blackness consumes him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rest in motherfuckin’ pieces, Micah. And you too, Colm. Also Hosea, Arthur, I’m so sorry, I love you.
> 
> Also psssssst: go read my friend platonicharmonics’s fice [Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002271/chapters/60540151) because it’s sooooo good, and I want people to read it. If you don’t, I’m never giving you Chapter 3… That is a lie, of course, I can’t leave Hosea and Arthur there. But… you should really give it a read (it’s got soft van der Fam feels, and the best queer smuttiness if you want some of that too).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks in* hello there. Have forgiven me for last chapter’s rollercoaster yet? _Good._ Because I did promise some happy ending, did I not? And while Hosea and Arthur were rescued at the last possible second last time (thank you, Dutch van der Linde, for _finally_ pulling your head out of that cowboy butt), we still need a proper resolution for that *wide hand gestures* situation. And for that, I’m gonna have them do what needs to be done: _freaking talk_.
> 
> Consequently, here are your **content warnings** for this third and final chapter: **talkative cowboys** (god there’s gonna be some talking, this chapter is mostly about _talking_... I apologize to Hosea's throat and lungs), **physical displays of affection** (R* started it), and **tooth-rotting fluff/comfort** (because this is how I’m gonna fix things in that alternate timeline and no one can stop me).
> 
> By the way, I have to thank, _again_ , my good friend [platonicharmonics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics) for being a constant source of support and inspiration and also an excellent enabler when it comes to indulge in healthy, tender tropes with 'em cowboys.

It’s only shimmers at first.

Like the morning light of a timid sun peeking through the canopy of trees, glittering with ever-changing shades of gold, silver, and green… a sky dressed in melted leaves, turning into the bottom of a forest pond, with water so clean and pure it looks like _life_ itself.

Shimmering lights and a voice. Blankets dulling his senses in impalpable cotton.

The voice grows louder sometimes, clearer. Then splits into a chorus of different voices.

All familiar but even more intangible, like a distant childhood memory, a tapestry of the mind whose patterns have faded away through the years.

Maybe he’s fading like that old tapestry too.

* * *

The shimmers turn into glimpses.

The fringes of Miss Grimshaw’s fraying shawl.

Dutch’s hands closed on his. The glint of gold.

He might utter words at some point. Ask about Arthur. Dutch doesn’t answer him. Or maybe he just slips away before he can hear him.

Maybe he couldn’t speak at all.

But the hands tighten around his.

* * *

_You’re starting to worry me, dearest, you know?_

_I heard you choke on your breath last night, and for a second I thought…_

_Arthur isn’t waking up, and I…_

_I need you, Hosea._

_I need you._

And by God, when all is said and done, he does too.

_He does too._

Hosea’s eyes blink open.

* * *

There are many comings and goings in and around Dutch’s tent after Hosea wakes up in its confines three days after Dutch saved them from Colm by who knows what miracle his reason and muscles were able to pull.

He’s lost count of the times Susan would come to him more with the intent of giving him an earful about how irresponsible he was to storm off on his own like this rather than checking his bandages—which she still does with the help of the Reverend once the latter is kind enough to step in.

Tilly, _sweet Tilly_ , has taken upon herself to bring him poultices she makes daily. There’s no doubt in his mind that his lungs would have collapsed in on themselves were it not for her dedication and talent, and maybe her precious smiles too.

Mary-Beth accompanied her once, offering him the solace of her latest stories and daydreams. Hosea isn’t blind to the way she tries to cover the shivers of her voice behind laughs she calls ‘silly’, nor how she hides the dampness that rises to her lashes by looking down at her book. When she visits again, alone, he takes her hand before she even tries to fool the both of them and lets her cry her anguish out on his shoulder.

He knows John came to sit by him during the first of the three nights he was still out cold. Tilly told him, of course; John has never been one to talk about the brawls taking place inside his heart, let alone about how he lets out whatever finally spills from the pot when it gets too full. But he doesn’t need anyone to tell him about the fear that tautens his boy’s shoulders when he sits down on his cot one morning, mouth clamped shut, back half turned to him while his eyes drift back and forth between his boots and the tent’s canvas, the one Hosea knows to hide the sight of Arthur’s wagon. John’s body starts when Hosea lays a comforting hand on his forearm, and the look they exchange then carries more than any of the rivers of words Hosea could weave even if his throat allowed it. “I’m glad you’re back,” John eventually lets out, his voice a little bit huskier than usual, and the air is dense with their shared guilt and dread about the uncertainty of the upcoming days. “Me too, my boy,” he murmurs so feebly, squeezing his arm. Their shoulders lean heavily against one another that morning.

Since he woke up, Hosea doesn’t think he’s seen Dutch absent from his bedside for more than thirty minutes. Their fingers find themselves intertwined each night, as Dutch sits and stares, impervious to Hosea’s demands that he go get some rest for himself. If he ever complies—Hosea very much doubts so—it’s always during his fretful sleep. Each morning, however, Dutch is there by his side, head and arms resting on the mattress, his faint snore blowing against the sheets, his hand still enveloping his in a slack embrace.

On the third morning after he regained consciousness, Hosea is threading his fingers through the unkempt jet curls, relishing the simplicity of a gesture he’s missed beyond words or thoughts and the way his chest can now rise and fall without the threat of pain shutting his lungs for good.

Dutch stirs, eyelids heavy for lack of sleep. The sight takes Hosea back to darker times when they both came close to drag the other into their own downward spirals. Times when Hosea was trying to find out how long it could take a man to kill himself by piling up corpses of bottles. Times when Dutch, so consumed by his own grief, would attempt to piece himself back together with the broken fragments of the people who loved him and got damaged in the wake of his storm.

Hosea swallows as Dutch’s eyes finally focus on him, his expression racked with worry.

“Hey there,” he croaks out. Even after three days of complete rest, his voice remains hoarse and weak, haunted by the twin specters of fire smoke and Micah’s hands. But it is time. “We need to talk.”

He transmits the softness his voice isn’t completely capable of carrying through the caress of his hand.

“I killed Micah.”

* * *

Hosea doesn’t spare Dutch any detail. He doesn’t keep quiet about the resentment and disappointment he felt pooling in his gut as he rushed out of Clemens Point. He doesn’t shy away from recounting his horrific discovery of Arthur hanging by his ankles in that basement, nor does he refrain from calling it what it was: _torture_. He doesn’t hide the blood-stopping realization that crashed into him when Micah gloated about his repulsive betrayal and his project of selling them all to Colm and undoubtedly the law once he was done with them two. And, with trembling fingers rising to his now unbandaged neck, he doesn’t hide what happened right after.

Dutch stares at him with wide, astounded eyes, his lips contorting in horror, hatred, despondency as Hosea reconstructs Micah’s treason from the snake’s sadistic words and ravenous brutality. Hosea watches him as the wall of his obstinate disbelief breaks further apart with each new alarmed look at the purplish marks around his neck _._ He recognizes the tempest swelling in the pit of his dark irises too well. That is when he stops talking.

“I’m tired, Dutch,” he confesses after an impossibly long silence that barely appeases his abused trachea. Hosea wants to believe he’ll stop feeling that way someday soon, but optimism has been in short supply lately.

His hand tentatively reaches for the glass of water left for him on the bedside table. It takes Dutch a few seconds to register the movement and guide it to spare him the strain on his stitches. He remains mute and keeps holding his right hand as Hosea soothes the dryness of his throat. His shoulder and side have been healing well, but all his injuries and chronic pains are conspiring against him to make each move more difficult than it should. He decides to set the empty glass back on the table by himself but is unable to repress a wince at the pull on his bullet-grazed flank. Dutch’s other hand hovers over him immediately.

“Hosea, I… I…”

The ripples of the lake and chirping of insects around them paint a calming picture that neither of their minds can quite absorb at the moment. Dutch’s mouth opens and closes in silence, words utterly failing him.

“Now that’s a first. At a loss for words,” Hosea jibes with a smile after that silence has sufficiently stretched, but there’s no bite to it. It’s not quite a joke either.

Dutch’s mouth shuts close, and he hangs his head low, his hand clasping Hosea’s harder.

“It means something, though,” Hosea mumbles, almost to himself. “Coming from you, in a way.”

“I’m so sorry. God, Hosea, I’m so _so sorry._ ”

“It’s alright.”

“No, you damn well know it ain’t,” Dutch mutters, his eyes snapping back up to him.

Hosea doesn’t contest it this time. Only lowers his head, his crumbled expression mirroring Dutch’s. Because no, it’s not.

“But you came. And you saved us. That counts for something. That counts for a lot, Dutch,” he says after a while. Dutch looks at him, expression unreadable, then lets his face tilt downward once more.

They remain like this for long minutes, wrapped in remorse, partially covered wounds and fading delusions.

“Dutch,” Hosea rasps eventually, because it’s the one sort of silence he can’t live with right now, no matter how good they all think they are at hiding things from him with their empty and evasive reinsurances. “How’s Arthur?”

Dutch doesn’t move an inch, but his breathing quickens. The absence of answer makes a devastating prelude.

“Dutch, _please._ ”

“He… He’s real bad, Hosea. He hasn’t woken up once since we got back. The infection… The reverend said—” his voice quavers, and his eyes still won’t meet Hosea’s “—he said he’s not sure he’ll make it. That if the fever doesn’t go down by tomorrow, he’ll—”

Hosea’s fingers constrict Dutch’s with such force it has to hurt him. His bandaged shoulder achingly tenses up under the thin of his loosely buttoned shirt, making his whole arm tremble. He knows Dutch is suddenly the one looking for his eyes, but Hosea can’t find the strength to look back… to exist outside of his own mind as it tries to invoke distorted reflections of what Arthur must look like now—what he looked like _then_ —so as to picture him getting better, getting stronger, grumbling about how everyone should stop fretting over him, about how he’s well enough to get up by himself.

The only fragment of the world’s harsh reality he can take right now is Dutch’s palm against his. So he keeps holding it, until he’s ready to open up his eyes again.

“We should have done more.”

“ _I_ should have done more,” Dutch counters, shaking his head. “You warned me, and I refused to listen.”

“I… I’m not just talking about this business with Colm, Dutch.”

A confused expression meets his gaze.

“We haven’t looked at him hard enough,” he sighs. “Or… Perhaps I did, but I wasn’t here enough for him, which is worse.”

“Hosea, you—”

“He’s been working his ass off,” Hosea persists, bent on not letting Dutch interrupt him. “He’s always worked hard, that’s who he is. Always wanting to please us. You, especially. Sometimes, I look at him and I’m so _proud_ , and other times, it’s like watching a pup that’s afraid he’s gonna be kicked out under the rain if he don’t perform the tricks he’s been taught. And it shames me. It should shame both of us.”

“I ain’t—”

“He goddamn _apologized_ to me when we were out there,” Hosea blurts out, his chest tightening at the mere evocation of the memory. “He apologized for getting caught while I held his bleeding body on the saddle. It broke my heart, Dutch, hearin’ him say those words. For Christ’s sake, how could that be okay?” he asks, feeling tears gather in the corners of his eyes. He inhales sharply, the inescapable conclusion burning his heart like a scorching mark meant to expose his faults to the world. “We _failed_ him.”

For once, Dutch has the presence of mind to remain quiet.

“It’s worse since Blackwater,” Hosea continues, and Dutch immediately tenses up at that. “I’m not sure it’s the only reason, but… He’s worried about us folks. All of us. And he’s worried about _you_ especially. He’ll follow you to the edge of the world if you asked him, but I know he’s worried about what happened. And I am too,” he pointedly adds, boring his eyes into Dutch’s. “I know we like to pretend like things ain’t that different from what they were, but they are. This country is changin’, and it hates us. I’m old enough now to know this ain’t gonna make a lot of difference for me, but it doesn’t have to be like that for Arthur. He’ll doom himself for you and he knows it. He doesn’t want to admit it, but I look at him sometimes and… I just see how sad he is.”

The words should crush him, but instead, it is the unexpected sensation of a weight lifting off his shoulders that stuns him. Nothing is done yet, nothing is resolved. Arthur’s still lying unresponsive on that bed. But talking about it with Dutch, and Dutch _listening_ , maybe truly for the first time in months, brings down on Hosea more peace than sleep has done for too long a time.

Dutch, still quiet, like embers of a dying fire, leans back in his chair, eyes drifting to the remote trees granting the horses the solace of their shades. Hosea follows his look and stops on Shepherd enjoying a good chunk of hay, flanked by The Count and a sleeping Silver Dollar, whose tired folded legs are taking some well-deserved rest in the soft grass. ‘The horse of Providence herself’, Dutch called the Shire when he recounted the rest of that horrid night, who ran straight into him and the Count after his flight from the O’Driscoll hide-out, followed them without a flinch of his ears, rallied a confused Silver Dollar and helped them carry Arthur back home. The blood of his owner and friend sullied the brave beast’s broad back and neck as he carried him that night. Now, his coat is shining in the noon sunlight. Washed and brushed clean by Kieran, no doubt.

“After Blackwater, I did not… _want_ to talk to you or anyone about it because there was no time for mistakes.” Dutch’s voice is low but so meek, so dangerously open to the vulnerability he so abhors. “You and Arthur had a good thing goin’ then, but Micah… Well, it was a big job, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how bad we needed it.”

“It was a mistake,” Hosea states, voice devoid of any cutting edge; he’s learned quite a long time ago now that simple facts could be harsh enough judgments.

“It was,” Dutch confesses, eyes still trained on the trees and the horses, trying to hold on to something that isn’t Hosea’s gaze. “It was a mistake. But that’s the thing. If it was happenin’ today, I’m not sure I wouldn’t do it all over again anyway. I just have to try, _every time_ , you know I do.”

“I know.”

“But what happened there,” Dutch goes on, his pitch getting higher, less in control— _scared_ , a voice whispers inside Hosea’s head—“I don’t want it to happen again. I’m _stuck_ , Hosea.”

There’s a break in his voice. A simple crack, but to Dutch, it would be like an abyss rifting the Earth open right under him.

“You’re not. Dutch, listen to me, you’re not—”

“I listened to Micah because it made me feel like I wasn’t.”

“Dutch, _look at me_.”

Slowly, painfully, Dutch turns a haunted gaze toward him. The raw disarray in his irises would shake anyone else in camp to the core. But Hosea knows this look, for its rarity has been his privilege in the past.

Just as slowly, Hosea reaches upward and rests his palm against his neck. Dutch recognizes the gesture, and a quiet whine flies past his lips as he leans into it.

“You listened to Micah,” Hosea says, pouring out every fragment of sincerity that rests inside his heart and mind, “because he sent you back the echo of your own voice. Because you so desperately think you need it. I even know you _like it._ And Micah knew it, and I think _you_ know he knew it. But this doubt you keep fighting in others Dutch, it’s _your own_. Nothing less, nothing more. Micah’s gone now, but what happens next… Hell, I dunno, it’s all up to you, you stubborn mule. So you better stop chasing echoes and start listening to ‘em who love you.”

Dutch closes his eyes tight as Hosea goes on, pulling out every scale and thorn Dutch has so carefully mended into his sense of self, only to lay bare the crippling truth that Dutch couldn’t bear to confront during their last dispute: pure unadulterated fear, feeding on uncertainty like the coyote feeds on the carcass.

It’s a truth he’s only ever _shown_ to _him_ , and last time felt like so long ago…

Dutch’s hand locks around his against his neck, eyes moist and cast downward as his frame all but crumbles. His shoulders sag as if stricken once too many, and even his broad chest seems too tight for the air it requires. He brings Hosea’s hand to his lips, kisses it, keeps it close, holds it with both his hands while the last embers of his inner resistance are slowly getting smothered by his vain struggle to retain control as well as openness. They both know one of those two has to yield to the other today. A choice only Dutch can make.

A choice he’s already made.

“I’m a fool,” he chokes against his skin. “I’m so sorry. For everything. You and Arthur, I should have… When I saw you both on the ground, I thought you were gone. I shot Colm, I knew it was him and I didn’t even _care_ he was dead, I couldn’t even _see_ , not with you two right there, like this! And when I got to _you_ , and you were… God, Hosea, you were covered in blood, I thought you were dying _in my arms!_ ”

And perhaps that’s the core of it all. Perhaps it’s key that has opened the cold, heavy, rusted lock to Dutch’s fears. What makes him stay this time and fall apart and listen instead of pretending. Hosea can’t claim to be certain, and it may not matter. For beyond these fears, there’s what unites them. Something they never lost. Something they never _will_ , Hosea understands then.

He is so grateful a tear slips down his cheek.

“Please, don’t leave. Don’t ever leave me like this.”

Hosea smiles down at him. “Want me to keep impossible promises now, van der Linde?”

“Never stopped us before. I _need you_ , Hosea.”

“And _I_ need you _too_. When I fought that bastard, it…” He swallows, the shards of his broken rage still raw and cutting under the reluctant touch of his reminiscing. The visions are like scars in his mind, healing but stinging with dread, dread that threatens to sew his mouth close with the thread woven from his doubts and self-disgust.

He wants to bury that dread _inside_ , deep into the dark pit that opened up _back there_ , as he clings to the blind hope that doing so might close it once and for all and make the sting disappear. But Dutch’s thumb is rubbing slow circles on the skin of his wrist. Hesitant, nervous, but gentle. Easing the sting. Letting him be vulnerable as well.

So he lets it _out_.

“It wasn’t pretty, Dutch. I’d kill him all over again, stab him a million times, but it was _ugly_ ,” he croaks, his voice aching not just because of the curse of fire smoke but also the too evident implications behind the words. A knot of terrifying sorrow swells inside his throat, but he can’t stop here. “I saw our son almost die in front of me. He was in so much pain, and I—I can still hear his screams. I can see Colm’s men get ready to shoot him like a dog and I’m just _useless._ So fuckin’ _useless_ —“

“Hosea, please…” Dutch starts, his eyes suddenly bright with a new kind of sadness as Hosea keeps going, each confession tugging at his raw vocal cords.

“—and I know we’re asking a lot from you and that’s why you’ve locked yourself out for so long, but if you don’t cut the bullshit, we’ll all keep gettin’ hurt, and you as well. You’re not the only one feeling lost. I _need_ you to understand that.” He stops to stifle a cough, flinching when his flank burns under the pull. He looks back at Dutch, bracing them both for the most important truth of all. “And Arthur needs you too. He needs you _right now_ , and I know you’ve been avoiding his cot like the plague.”

Dutch cannot interrupt him this time. The soft plea in his eyes isn’t enough to bring back the denial he so tightly clung to or to relieve his uncharacteristic silence from the shame that pervades it.

“You’re _afraid_ ,” Hosea insists, louder this time, ignoring the dry begging of his throat and mouth because it needs to be said, repeated, over and over if need be. They can’t afford to be blind to it any longer. The pressure of his fingers increases on Dutch’s, shaking them a little. “You were afraid back then, when I told you it didn’t feel right. Well, guess what, _I’m_ _afraid_ _too_. I can’t keep pretending like I can take this more easily than you can for your sake, because the truth is I can’t. Not anymore. So please, now,” he urges, gently pressing their hands down on the mattress, “don’t run away again.”

_Believe, doubt, make mistakes, start again, but don’t run away._

Hosea’s throat might be on fire again but he doesn’t care. Their mutual stare no longer harbors any conflict or challenge over the mess their lives have become during these past months. Only complete understanding and the sheer relief of untainted love. It’s dizzying.

Dutch kisses the back of his hand once again, his head bowing not in guilt but in agreement.

“I won’t. I can’t. _I won’t_.”

A promise. One he can keep.

For a blissful minute, the world narrows down to the warmth of Dutch’s tent, its shadows no longer stifling but comforting, watching over their words, both pronounced and unspoken, like a vigilant guardian.

“Look at us, pair of dumb fools,” Dutch mumbles after a while, a smile finally gracing his features. “I was getting tired of us two fightin’ each other.”

“And whose fault was that, you bullheaded bastard?” Hosea ribs, a new elation found in his bones.

“Mine, Hosea,” Dutch simply replies, serious but not somber. “Usually mine.”

Hosea looks at him fondly. “Very much usually. But there are times when we’re probably both at fault. A few times.”

“I should write that down before you start professing the opposite,” Dutch counters, and here it is. The mischievous glint.

“You do that, dearest,” Hosea says, closing his eyes for and swallowing painfully after having talked so much.

The stroke of careful fingers against his jaw has him open them again. The unrestrained adoration that meets his gaze steals a heartbeat from him.

“You’re not useless. You’re anything but useless. You’re the most beautiful soul that I know and you have no idea of all the good you’re putting into this world. You didn’t fail him, Hosea. You _saved_ him. Arthur would have been lost without you.”

Surprise hits him like a brick wall, closely followed by a wave of indescribable emotions at Dutch’s sheer honesty and the immeasurable comfort he can draw from the brown of his eyes.

No further prompt or signal is needed for them to slide into each other’s arms. They fit against one another like water meets the sky on the horizon, arms as strong and tight as their promise. They’ll do better. And they’ll do so together, like it’s supposed to be.

A gentle kiss brushes the bruised skin of his neck. He closes his eyes and tucks his face into Dutch’s collar, inhales the smell of cheap cologne and cigar. Dutch’s arms are unbelievingly warm around him, mindful of his wounds, tender in their strength. Hosea’s hands are close to shaking as they clutch the back of his vest.

For the first time in what has felt like ages, they simply let themselves hold and be held, content in simply _being_.

Eventually, Hosea opens his eyes. His left hand climbs Dutch’s neck to anchor itself amidst the black locks. There is a sob building in his throat when he asks:

“Please, let’s go see Arthur.”

Because it might be their son’s last day on Earth, and any other place in the universe they could find themselves in would be wrong.

Slowly, Dutch nods against his shoulder.

* * *

“I know you’re cheating, old man.”

Hosea’s hearty laugh has Cain raise his head toward him, startled by the sound as much as willing to take it as an invitation to share in some of that mirth. Hosea gently pats his muzzle and gives him a generous scratch behind the ears.

“All I’m hearin’ here is the whining of a child who don’t like to lose.”

“It’s been five rounds like that, I’m not listening to this.”

“Please, enlighten me: how does one cheat with one unique set of dominoes?”

“I don’t know, but you sure do. You’d cheat at fishing if you could, conman.”

“Why, thank you, dear boy. I’m touched. And I do cheat at fishing.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to laugh. The sound is still rough, air hitting the walls of his throat like the sea crashes against uncompromising cliffs. But it’s relaxed, unchained. _Alive._

When he woke up five days ago, Hosea all but collapsed under the amassed exhaustion of having watched over him for two days straight as his memories, injuries and aging nerves kept eating at him. When Arthur finally beat his fever and regained consciousness, eyes almost devoid of any light but open ever so slightly, when he feebly returned the squeeze of Hosea’s hand, the intensity of his exertion so evident, Hosea was only able to hold it together for a couple of minutes before he passed out in Dutch’s panicked arms. Of course, Susan gave them both hell for that. Dutch’s prideful bark at her scolding only worsened his case, until a strange, miraculous streak of wisdom made it through the thick of his head, advising him quite correctly to shut the hell up in the face of her fury. Learning always comes at a high price.

Arthur is still bedridden. The state of him is positively ghastly. His eyes are trapped inside grey circles, the lines of his face have hardened under the loss of muscle and fat, and the hollow of his collarbone would be frightening enough without the blotches and stitches reddening his sickly skin.

Arthur is nowhere near alright. But he’s alive and, even more importantly, _healing._

Hosea is making sure of that—as well as half the camp, in a grandiloquent and varied display of manners, not all of which to please Arthur. His wet cat attitude would have Hosea cackle if the same collective treatment weren’t forced on him too. However, the fact that he doesn’t have it in him yet to kick them out with one of his biting vociferations may give some credit to their chaperons’ concerns.

It has, therefore, become quite common for Hosea to accommodate to their dreadful situation by offering the boy a game of dominoes each day after lunch. It’s usually enough to soothe Arthur’s dark thoughts as well as his feverish boredom, if only for a short while.

Hosea’s found out that this very much applies to him too. Healing takes time and, in many cases, more than one medicine. He’s still a student of that particular school of thought, and that for a simple reason…

He has nightmares.

Each night sees him wake up trembling, sweat running down his temples and pricking his eyes, air burning in his lungs under the assault of images he’s sure the devil himself has forged just for him. _Arthur hanging upside down. Clawed hands squeezing his boy’s neck. A blade made of fire stabbing him through the heart. The earth-shattering blow of a gunshot drowned by Arthur’s scream._ The visions might change one night to the next, but that god-awful scream always remains. Always in the dark, always so close to his ear while his boy remains out of sight and out of reach, and Hosea loses his fight against tears every damn time. And every time, strong arms reach for him and hold him tight as silent, stifled sobs rack his body.

Dutch doesn’t need to pry because he knows already. Hosea told him everything. And so he whispers to him, murmurs with the helplessness comfort so often entails, anchors him with hushed words kissed into his ears and soothing circles rubbed on his back. Every night, he cradles Hosea’s face and tells him ‘you’re home, you’re both home’. Every night, Dutch _listens_ , even when Hosea doesn’t utter a word.

Cain’s wet nose rubs against his slack palm and drags him back to the present. The mutt is looking at him with questioning eyes, a soft whine rising from his chest. The sight reminds him of a more excitable coonhound that would spawn storms with the wagging of his tail alone. Albeit a very different dog, Copper, much like good Cain here, had a talent for sniffing out people’s woes.

“Good boy,” Hosea praises in a low voice, petting his soft grey head.

“He reminds me of Copper a bit,” Arthur says with a smile. “When he scratches his neck, his tongue drops out of his mouth just the same.”

The accurate comparison carves a similar expression on Hosea’s face. “He looked dumber than a coal bucket, that dog of yours. I miss him.”

“Me too.”

They let the relative calm of Clemens Point absorb the sound of their conversation. More dominoes are laid down on the wooden tray Pearson has kindly fetched him for that purpose. The first time he asked, he had to comfort the man for a solid fifteen minutes as the guilt gushed out of him in a torrent with no warning whatsoever. The poor cook only accepted to go on with his life when Hosea assured him that yes, this makeshift game board and his best stew were all they could ask for.

However, in spite of the game, the shadow that sometimes falls upon Arthur’s eyes is quick to return. Hosea knows what it means because he can feel that same curtain drop on him when he lets his thoughts catch up with him.

“How’s the sleep, son?”

Arthur’s eyes meet his. A mechanical lie is already building in them, but the piercing hazel of Hosea’s gaze reminds him of the futility of the effort. Hosea’s been able to tell about his plagued nights of sleep since he was a teenager.

“Not good,” he confesses in a faint groan. “I… I still have them nightmares, sometimes.”

Hosea nods, although he knows better than to trust the ‘sometimes’. So he repeats what he told a lost boy all those years ago and what he told him again only three nights back.

“Well. When that happens again, you know you can always come to me. Always.”

Arthur picks a domino from his tray but doesn’t play it. His wrist rests against the edge of the board as his fingers fidget with the small tile. After a while, he clears his throat.

“How’s _your_ sleep?”

Hosea’s smile is just as fond as his look when he catches the evident concern and affection in Arthur’s eyes. _This boy._

“Still having them too,” he answers, neither dismissive nor grave, simply honest.

He hasn’t shied away from it, not with Arthur. The man probably would never have opened up about his dreams if Hosea didn’t broach the subject first as soon as the occasion arose once Arthur was well enough to stay awake for a full conversation. Hiding his night terrors from Arthur when he’s being chased by his own personal hell wouldn’t just be cowardly, it would be plain _wrong._ And Hosea has failed the boy too many damn times already.

Arthur returns the nod, his mouth twisting in a grimace.

“I’m sor—”

“Arthur, _please_.” Hosea’s pained sigh barely alleviates the weight that falls down on him every time Arthur goes there. “Nothing that’s happened is even remotely your fault, dear boy. You saved my life. Several times. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You were hurt. And if Colm’s plan had worked—”

“Tell me, what’s the point of blamin’ yourself for something that _didn’t_ happen? _You_ got hurt. Colm did this to you. And me? Yes, I got hurt, by that son of a bitch Micah. You didn’t do this, Arthur. If I had to go through it all again, it would be in a heartbeat, and it would be my choice. And know that if I had to knock on death’s door to make sure you’re safe, then I’ll happily do so.”

“Please, _stop_.” The blue of his eyes is shimmering under the crease of his brows, his features crumpled with such ostensible heartache that Hosea bites his tongue. “When Micah was—” his voice wavers at the mere mention of the name. Hosea knows only too well what he’s seeing; he still bears the marks of that vision around his neck. “I’d never want that, you’re—you’re my _family_ , Hosea.”

The hurt in Arthur's voice stings more than any of his wounds or aching joints. Inhaling sharply as he tugs on his stitched-up body, he carefully lifts off the board to set it on Arthur’s side table. When space is cleared between them, Hosea sits back on his chair and drags it as close to the cot as possible.

“And you’re _my son_ ,” he says, cupping Arthur’s face with both hands, “which means that if I need to chase O’Driscolls or Pinkertons or the devil himself across thirty states to bring you home, then I bloody will. You’re my responsibility and above all, dear boy, you’re my privilege. Not a burden. You never, _never_ were a burden, and if I and Dutch at some point made you feel like you were, then, in both our names, I am _so sorry_. I’m sorry to have failed you. And I want you to know that I’m proud of you.”

Arthur swallows hard, thoughts stuck in his throat for a long while as he fights to keep his eyes locked on Hosea’s, receiving and giving with this look more than what his words could probably express. “You didn’t fail me,” he finally breathes out, dropping his watery gaze but nodding shakily. “You saved my life as well. More than once.”

Heart swelling with the gift of love wrapped in the words spoken by Arthur and those left to read in his eyes, Hosea gently grabs the back of his head and brings their foreheads together. They remain like this for long precious seconds, granting themselves the comfort of each other’s presence and of that meaningful silence.

Hosea then rubs Arthur’s unruly hair, smirking at the appalling state of the dirty blonde locks falling on his shoulders. “That mane of yours is getting quite long, son.”

Arthur’s grunt contains something carefree this time as he slowly dislodges himself from Hosea’s hold. “Don’ tell me. I need to get to a barber when I’m done bein’ chained to that bed.”

“I thought you _wanted_ to try it long.”

“I _did_ , and I changed my mind. Gets in my eyes all the damn time.”

Hosea smirks at him. “Well, we all make mistakes, don’t we? That reminds me of your… early _experimenting_ with a pair of scissors. What age was you, fifteen, sixteen?”

The moan that escapes Arthur’s chest as he rubs his eyes with the balls of his hands is comically reminiscent of a younger, even more self-conscious version of the man. “Christ sake, why'd ya have to remind me?”

“He’s a ruthless bastard, you know him, son.” Hosea’s smile widens into a grin as he turns to look at Dutch strutting toward them to go rest a hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “And also because you certainly looked like an overgrown chick that got spit outta the coop. That was quite memorable.”

Arthur’s complaint grows louder under the combined assault of their chuckles. “I wanna pass out again.”

“Finally, we might have found a way to make him stop ranting about being stuck in bed and actually take proper naps,” Hosea notes, the twinkle in his eyes finding its reflection in Dutch’s.

“I nap plenty.”

“Of course, Arthur. By the way…” Hosea stretches his arm behind him, not even wincing as he does so, and theatrically sets his last remaining domino at one end of the line they drew during their sixth round. “Domino.”

“Oh come on, _really_?”

Hosea delights in Arthur’s almost childish annoyance as he gives the board an intimidating glare.

He notices how the mirthful rumble coming from Dutch’s chest slowly dies down behind him.

Dutch’s eyes are fixed on Arthur, his thoughts apparently wandering beyond the borders of the tent. Catching Hosea raising an inquiring eyebrow at him, he says: “I think I have an idea.”

“Dear God, maybe _I’ll_ get back to bed.”

Arthur doesn’t really bother concealing a snort. Dutch has a hard time pretending the sound he makes as he swats Hosea’s shoulder is anything else than a snicker. “As if, you stubborn fox,” he says as he walks away toward his tent.

“Now look who’s talking,” Hosea mutters, pushing his chair back so he can gather the dominoes back into their box.

“How’s he doing?” Arthur asks, a frown knitting his forehead once more.

Hosea interrupts his gesture. His gaze roams on the surface of the lake he can see through the slit carved by the flaps of Arthur’s tent.

“Better than I thought he’d be if you’d asked me that two weeks ago,” he replies, looking back at him. There is a strange sort of confidence in him today, one he thought belonged only to younger men from a younger world.

Some of it must pass onto Arthur when Hosea covers his hand with his own, for his expression smoothens. He adjusts his back against the head of his cot, sitting in a more comfortable position, eyes drifting toward the still discarded dominoes.

“Yeah. We’ll be alright, ya think?”

Hazel meets blue as both of them search the other for a truth that exists beyond their human hunger for certainty.

Footsteps approach Arthur’s tent again, their gait heavy but almost hesitant. When Dutch reappears at the entrance, he’s looking down at a pair of scissors in his right hand.

“I can give you a fresh cut, Arthur,” he says after a beat that none of them missed. “If you want.”

Hosea’s lips part in stunned silence. Something blooms inside his chest—something warm and light and _intoxicating_ —as he takes in the significance of Dutch’s seemingly trivial offer and the way the man’s eyes try to meet Arthur’s, to truly _look at him_ after having missed so much for so long and apologized so little. Sparks of happiness run through Hosea’s bones to the very tip of his fingers.

Arthur’s eyes are as wide as those of a startled deer. “You can cut hair now? Since _when?_ ”

“Taught myself. A long time ago, when we were younger and crazier, we was sometimes miles away from any decent barbershop,” Dutch replies, looking pointedly at Hosea. “I won’t make art out of it, but it’s been helpful.”

“Oh, I _remember_. You had your own disastrous experiments,” Hosea beams, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “But it got better with time. Decent, even, I’d say,” he adds, sharing another more intimate look with Dutch.

“Heard the expert, Arthur. So, what do you think?”

Hosea is ready to bet all his possessions that Arthur has rarely seen—if at all—that expectant look on Dutch’s face before. If he has, it’s probably been buried under the sea of time that has come only too close to engulfing them all.

Maybe they’ve reached the shore now.

“I… I’d like that,” Arthur finally answers, eyes truly peaceful for the first time in too long.

Hosea gives Dutch’s hand a gentle squeeze as he moves closer.

Yes. Maybe they’ll be alright.

— · —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus they engaged on a path toward life, love and redemption. Thank you so much for reading <3


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